by Karen White
My stomach growled as I spied the food on their plates and smelled the bacon, forgetting my next question involving why James and Becky were sitting at Marlene’s table.
James stood and pulled out a chair for me. “Why don’t you eat first? Becky brought these biscuits. Maisy made them. They’re pretty good.”
“Are they as good as mine?” I’d meant it as a joke, but I realized it hadn’t sounded like one.
I slid into the offered chair as Marlene placed a full plate in front of me, along with a steaming cup of coffee. “I enjoy having all my limbs attached, so give me a moment to answer that.” James sat down. “I think both are equally delicious and different.”
“Good one,” Becky said, offering her clenched hand for a fist bump.
I laughed, then helped myself to a biscuit. “So why are you both here?”
James placed his napkin beside his empty plate and leaned back in his chair. “Becky texted me this morning and told me that you wanted me to pick her up and bring her here so we could go shopping.”
I took a sip of my coffee. “Becky, I don’t think Mr. Graf appreciates . . .” I stopped, confused as to why she was studying me so intently. “What?” I asked.
“If you and Mr. Graf had a baby, I wonder what color its eyes would be. Yours are brown, but Mama’s are gray, which means you’re not a pure-strain brown.”
I’d made the mistake of taking a sip from my coffee and started coughing.
Oblivious to my distress, Becky continued. “Blue is recessive, but if brown eyes aren’t pure-strain, then it’s possible to have a blue-eyed child. Mine are brown, like yours and Birdie’s. Daddy has brown eyes, too, so I’m going to have to ask Mr. Ward, my science teacher.” With a serious face, she added, “We’re studying fruit flies in science class.”
Marlene appeared at my side with the pot of coffee. She winked at me as she leaned in to top off my mug. “Remember that your mama and aunt are half sisters. Your aunt Georgia’s daddy had blue eyes just like Mr. Graf—the same shade as the bay first thing in the morning. But Georgia got Birdie’s coloring—for her eyes and her hair. Those are some bossy genes; that’s for sure.”
I focused on my food, wondering how to tell a nine-year-old it was time to stop talking.
“My wife had brown eyes,” James said quietly. “Lighter than Georgia’s—with a hint of green in them. I always wondered what color eyes our children would have had.” A sad smile softened his face.
Becky took a sip of juice from her glass. “Mama said that your wife died. I’m really sorry. When my cat died when I was eight, Birdie said not to be sad. And when we remember them it means they’re still alive.”
Marlene placed a hand on Becky’s shoulder. “So Birdie’s talking?”
Becky looked at me with wide eyes. “P-please don’t tell Mama. It makes her m-mad.”
“I won’t, Becky,” I said gently. “But I am curious. Birdie hasn’t spoken to me since before you were born, but if she’s talking to you, then I’d feel better.”
She looked down at her plate. “She only talks to me. Sort of.”
“What do you mean, ‘sort of’?” Marlene asked, sitting down in an empty chair.
Becky’s small shoulders shrugged, and I had to lean closer to hear her. “She sings songs, and then I have to guess what she’s saying. She moves her eyes to tell me I’ve guessed right. It’s been our game since I was little.”
“Like how the bees talk to one another to let the others know where to find food, or if there’s danger. Like that?” I said.
Becky’s face brightened. “Just like that.” And then she smiled and all of those missing years suddenly became a gaping wound, an empty space I’d never found a way to fill no matter how many times I’d told myself that I had. I missed you. I’m so glad you have a happy life with parents who adore you. I’m sorry. All the words I wanted to say sat frozen on my lips, impotent and too many years too late.
I stood, focusing on picking up my plate and cup and bringing them to the sink. I took my time rinsing the dishes, waiting until the lump had dissolved in my throat, the bitter aftertaste I knew would follow. “I’ll go get my shoes and purse,” I said without looking at anyone, hoping to have remembered who I was and why I was there before I had to return.
We decided to walk to the small downtown area. The roads were black and sodden from all the rain, the trees top-heavy. Leaden skies hovered over the bay, but blue sky was making a valiant effort to show through. It wasn’t too far to walk, the distance seeming much farther during the summer months, when your hair melted onto your scalp and you felt yourself walking slowly through the wall of humidity that settled on Apalachicola like a wet blanket despite the breezes that blew in across the bay. I sent a sideways look at James, who wore long pants and a button-down shirt with rolled-up sleeves.
“If you’re going to stay here much longer, you’re going to need some shorts and short-sleeved shirts. And probably lots of sunscreen.” I took in his reddish gold hair and blue eyes. “Are you Irish or Scottish?”
“Mostly Swiss, actually. Graf is a common Swiss name. Believe it or not, I actually have some Italian and French in me, too—my grandmother’s mother was French, her father an Italian. So I’m not ‘pure-strain,’ according to Becky,” he said with a slow smile. “I do sunburn if I’m not careful, but I’ve got enough Italian and French in me that I’ve been known to actually have a tan.”
We strolled in silence, watching as Becky walked with hunched shoulders ahead of us, avoiding the cracks in the sidewalks, just as I’d done as a child. We walked past the wedding-cake Victorians with crushed-oyster-shell drives that sat next to Apalachicola bungalows, and shotgun cottages with their slender columns and filigreed overhangs, most lots interspersed with tall pines and thick oaks. The architecture was as diverse as the people and history of Apalachicola, something I’d always loved about my hometown. And one of the things that made it hard to forget.
“It must have been difficult to leave,” James said.
I swallowed, wondering how he could have read my mind, and quickly tried to think of a lighthearted quip. “You haven’t been here in August. You might think differently.”
His expression was serious, and I sobered immediately, getting ready to deflect any uncomfortable observations.
“Your roots are here—your family, the house, your history.” A car sped by and James took my elbow to move me away from the road. “I remember my grandmother’s stories about how they moved to Switzerland during the war. She was a teenager at the time, but she always said part of her soul had been left behind. I’ve wondered if you felt the same about here.”
I felt the anger in me rise, tempered only by the memory of his face as he’d told me about his wife. “You could ask yourself the same question. You’re here, aren’t you?”
His face stilled. “But this is temporary. As diverting as it’s been, it’s not permanent.”
I continued walking, Becky almost a block ahead of us. “Yeah. I used to think that, too.”
He was silent for a moment. “Have you ever thought that you haven’t looked at the situation from every perspective—this thing between you and Maisy? I know hindsight’s twenty/twenty, but I can’t stop thinking that if I’d only taken the time to notice things, to ask questions before Kate’s death, I wouldn’t have all these feelings now.” He frowned, his gaze focused on the ground in front of him. “It’s like living with a deep cut that you don’t remember getting, and having no idea how to stop it from bleeding. I would give away everything I own for just five minutes with her again.” He looked at me, his eyes dark. “If Maisy disappeared from your life tomorrow, would you regret anything?”
Something that felt a lot like panic gripped me, making it hard for me to breathe, making me want to lean over and rest my hands on my knees as if I’d just sprinted for a mile. Even when I’d lived in New Orlea
ns all those years, I always knew that Maisy was here. That if I wanted to I could call her, or come visit. If I could just push back my pride for five minutes and pick up the phone. That the option might be removed permanently shattered something inside of me. I felt bared, exposed. Resentful. Yet when I looked into his clear eyes, I felt the unmistakable nudge of thankfulness.
“I’m too afraid, I think.”
“Afraid?”
I stopped walking to think for a moment, to make sure I understood what, exactly, I was afraid of. “I’m afraid that she won’t meet me halfway. That she’ll turn around and walk away and everything will be as it’s been.” I swallowed. “Because then I’ll have lost all hope. At least this way I still have hope.”
“But what if she doesn’t walk away?”
I opened my mouth to answer, then closed it when I realized I had nothing to say. I began walking toward Becky, who’d stopped and was staring back at us with her hands on her hips, looking startlingly like Maisy.
“If we don’t hurry, I might not get to see Paco.”
I stopped in front of her. “Paco? Is that your boyfriend?”
She screwed up her face as if she’d just eaten something bitter. “No. Paco is a cute little dog who lives at the art gallery on the corner of E and Market. Mr. Lindsley always lets me pet him.”
I hid my smile. “We can always come back,” I said.
We walked half a block before James spoke again. “My wife was an architect. Her specialty was contemporary spaces, with lots of chrome and glass. She designed several boutique art galleries in the city, and was quite well-known. I never really appreciated her love for sharp angles and hard surfaces, but I was proud of all of her accomplishments. I should have made sure she knew that. I told her many times, but I don’t think she really ever believed me. I just wish I’d tried harder.”
I didn’t have to ask why he was telling me. He played the role of referee well, and I knew that with each morsel about my life that I threw at him, he’d reciprocate. I hadn’t known James Graf for a long time, but I’d learned that he was kind and sincere, and didn’t hide his hurts so much as disguise them as opportunities for courage.
We caught up to Becky again, who was frowning at us. “We won’t have any time to do anything if you keep moving like turtles.”
I looked at my watch and realized we’d been walking for only ten minutes. “We have plenty of time. I thought I’d take Mr. Graf to see the John Gorrie tomb and monument.”
Becky rolled her eyes, and it was a relief to know that she could act like a normal girl who didn’t have a disconnected grandmother and parents who didn’t live together anymore. “Do we have to?”
“Yeah. We kind of do. The world should know about John Gorrie. Personally, I think he should be sainted.”
“That’s for sure,” Becky said as we caught up to her and continued down Avenue F toward Sixth Street and took a right. “We studied him in science.”
“Who is this Gorrie person?” James asked with a hint of amusement.
Becky looked like she might burst, so I said, “Why don’t you tell him?”
She took a calming breath to slow her words before speaking. “He was the inventor of the first ice machine and mechanical refrigeration—which led to modern air-conditioning. My teacher said we probably wouldn’t have any big cities in the South if it weren’t for John Gorrie and air-conditioning. And I told her that I’d rather live in Florida in one-thousand-degree heat than freeze to death anywhere else.”
I had once said the same thing, and wondered whether Maisy had liked it enough to repeat it in Becky’s hearing.
“That’s a pretty serious statement,” James said.
“Because it’s true.” Becky looked at me for backup, and I nodded in agreement.
We approached the only traffic circle in Apalachicola, with two Civil War cannons planted in the middle of the green space, the Gorrie museum, library, and Trinity church rounding out the tourist attractions surrounding the circle. We stood in front of the large cement urn lifted to its lofty position by an elaborate base and four white steps.
“His final resting place, I assume,” James asked.
I nodded. “He used to be buried in Lafayette Park before they moved all the bodies to make it into a park.”
Becky squinted. “You mean I used to play in a cemetery?”
“I think she said they moved the bodies,” James said with a straight face. “But I guess it’s always possible that they could have forgotten one or two.”
An exaggerated shudder went through her small body. “If you had a phone, Aunt Georgia, you could take a selfie here.”
I stared at her blankly, trying to communicate my complete disdain for people who relentlessly took pictures of themselves with their phones.
“You know. A picture of yourself with the monument in the background.”
“I know what it is,” I said. “But why would I want to do that?”
“So you can put it on your Facebook page or Instagram or tweet it.”
It was my turn to roll my eyes. “Do you really think somebody without a cell phone has anything to do with social media?”
She scrunched up her nose. “I guess not.” I leaned closer so I could hear her. I’d found that if you showed her that you wanted to hear what she had to say, and didn’t make her speak too loudly, she didn’t stutter. She continued. “Mama said you weren’t on Facebook because it’s a place for people who want to keep in touch. And who don’t want old embarrassing photos showing up.” She squinted up at me. “My friend Brittany was really embarrassed when her mama put a photo of her in the bathtub when she was a baby and tagged her.”
The rumbling sound of a car motor approached, distracting me from the heat rising to my cheeks and the two sets of eyes watching me with anticipation. The Charlie Daniels Band shouted from rolled-down windows as the vehicle approached, and for that brief moment before I knew for sure, I said a brief prayer that it wasn’t who I thought it was.
But when I turned around and saw the red Camaro, the paint now faded to a dusky pink, I was once again reminded that God had stopped answering my prayers a long time ago. The car rumbled to a stop, its engine vibrating.
“Georgia Chambers—is that really you? I was a block away and I caught sight of that hair of yours.” A tanned arm with a tattooed sleeve from wrist to shoulder rested on the door. “Wasn’t until I got nearer and saw your backside that I knew it could be no other. Come over here, girl, and give me a hello kiss.” The man grinned, white teeth behind sun-darkened skin and black stubble. “For old times’ sake.”
I knew I had to say something; I just couldn’t think of anything I could say in front of Becky. Or James. “Bobby Stoyber,” I finally managed, the name as heavy as a cannonball.
He tilted his head. “Is that all you got for me, sweetheart?”
In my peripheral vision I saw James move and assumed he was walking away. I felt a tug of heartsickness, but was too horrified by the situation to think why.
And then James was standing by the driver’s side and offering his hand to shake. “James Graf. A business associate of Georgia’s. Nice to meet you.”
Bobby stared at the proffered hand for a moment before taking it, a grin leaching across his face like spilled oil. “Yeah. Likewise. A ‘business associate,’ you say? Is that what she’s calling her boyfriends these days?”
An odd expression crossed James’s face, something a complete stranger might actually take as a smile. But I’d seen enough of his genuine smiles to know this wasn’t one, and that Bobby should actually be a little afraid.
James leaned into the open window, his large hands braced on the door. “I’m sure you’ve known Miss Chambers longer than I have, Bobby, but that doesn’t mean you need to disrespect her. Especially in front of her young niece. You’ve said your hello; now I think it’s time you
move on.”
“Who’s going to make me?”
James stood to his full height and looked calmly down at Bobby. “I have a black belt in karate, and I could sterilize you before you even knew I moved.”
A car with an underutilized muffler chortled slowly down Avenue D toward the circle and the Camaro. Bobby glanced at it as he shifted his car into gear. “Whatever.” He pointed his chin at me. “Call me. So we can catch up.”
I managed to find my voice again. “Yes. I’m sure I’ve got your number on my cell.”
He pulled away without a backward glance, and I stayed where I was, afraid to look at either Becky or James. It seemed that the satellite that was my past had finished circling me and decided it was time to crash into the middle of my present.
I felt Becky’s slight presence at my side. “I d-don’t like him.”
I put my arm around her, angry that Bobby had brought out Becky’s stutter on what had promised to be a stress-free outing.
“Me, neither,” James said, moving to stand on my other side. “I almost wish he’d stepped out of his car.”
I forced myself to meet his eyes. “Thank you.”
“No need.” He smiled softly. “It’s amazing how some people never change. And how some people do.”
I was embarrassed again, remembering how Maisy had once said the same thing to my departing back. “How do you know I’ve changed?”
He looked a little sheepish. “Mr. Mandeville. He told me to keep you at arm’s length. That you were a virtual nun and I needed to behave like a gentleman.”
I closed my eyes so I could at least pretend that the ground beneath me was swallowing me up. “I need a beer.”
“It’s not even t-ten o’clock,” Becky said softly, her voice pained.
James jerked his head in the direction of downtown. “Come on. Let’s do our shopping and then we’ll stop for lunch and we’ll both have a beer—after we make sure Becky gets to her tennis lesson.”
