by Karen White
The lure of a shopping trip had done nothing to perk her up, nor had the Darlington cook’s best efforts enticed Margaret to eat. Ceecee had always thought the term “pining away” was something found only in fairy tales and the gothic romance novels Bitty would pull out of the donation bins at the school’s library. But here was Margaret, fading right in front of them, to the point where Ceecee was reminded of the shadows of the A-bomb victims in Hiroshima and Nagasaki that were forever embedded on the pavements. She was afraid that would be Margaret’s fate, one day just slipping away from them and leaving behind only a pale shadow.
“You should write to him,” Bitty said, chewing on a Tootsie Roll. “It’s time to swallow your Darlington pride. Tell him you love him, and that you will wait for him. Tell him you’d like to set a wedding date. Because if you keep going this way, there will be nothing left to fit into your mother’s antique lace wedding dress.”
Margaret shook her head. “I can’t. If he truly loves me, he’ll come home and admit he’s made a big mistake. By not writing, I’m hoping he’ll figure that out on his own.”
Bitty rolled her eyes. “I don’t know much about men, Margaret, but I do know that they’re about as good at mind reading as women are. Just give me the word, and I will write to him for you.”
When Margaret didn’t give her a response, Bitty looked at Ceecee. “I give up.”
Ceecee could only nod, having already tried over and over again to talk sense into Margaret. It was wearying and sad, not to mention hopeless. Bitty was right—without a letter from Margaret, Reggie would think she’d forgotten about him. But apart from writing the letter themselves, as Bitty had threatened, there wasn’t anything they could do about it.
“I’m starving,” Ceecee said. “Anybody up for the Whistling Pig? I don’t think I’ve been there since graduation.”
“Best hot dog in the world,” Bitty said. “I’m game.”
Margaret didn’t answer but stopped to stare listlessly into the window at Nancy’s Dress Shop, watching the reflection of the sky behind them instead of the pretty dresses on mannequins. “I like that one on the left, Margaret,” Ceecee said in her most cheerful voice. “It would look just beautiful with your coloring and would show off your tiny waist. That sweet girl Marilyn Tompkins works there and has the best taste. Let’s go inside.”
Margaret frowned and turned her head, as if just becoming aware that she wasn’t alone. “I’m sorry?”
Ceecee dug into her purse, pulled out the tube of Certainly Red lipstick that Margaret had given to her on the day they’d left for Myrtle Beach, and handed it to her along with her mirror. “I think you forgot to put your lipstick on. Here, use this. Everybody says that just putting on a bright lipstick will make a girl feel like a million dollars without having to spend a million dollars.” She wasn’t sure if that was really what “everybody” said, or where she’d heard it, but she was desperate to get Margaret to smile again.
Margaret took the lipstick and mirror and stared at them as if she had no idea what they were for. Bitty grabbed them out of her hand and gave them back to Ceecee. “For pity’s sake, Margaret. He’s just a man. And if he can leave you without a by-your-leave, then he’s not worth mooning over.”
Seeing Margaret’s face begin to pucker, Ceecee prepared herself for another torrent of tears and began to hunt for the nearest bench. Suddenly, she saw a cab pull up in front of the jewelry store and the back window roll down just as the store owner hurried out to the car.
“Who’s that?” Ceecee asked.
Bitty wore a sly smirk. “One of Hazel Weiss’s working girls from the Sunset Lodge. I hear they make as much as a thousand dollars a month. In cash.”
Ceecee glanced over at Margaret, who was watching with a strange expression, but at least she wasn’t crying. They continued to watch as the store owner went back inside and then reemerged a short time later with a flat black display box. They couldn’t see what was inside, but the sun glinted off something bright and sparkling as he opened the car door for the woman inside to see.
“Why don’t they shut them down?” Ceecee asked Bitty. Bitty was always the person to ask about sensitive topics since she talked openly with her parents about everything.
Bitty snorted. “Because the politicians who make the laws are their best customers.” She took out a pack of cigarettes from her purse, but Ceecee’s glare made her put it back. Ladies simply did not smoke on the sidewalk. But it was apparently appropriate for a prostitute to shop on one.
Through the open door, Ceecee could make out a pair of long, elegant, stockinged legs leading down to high-heeled black shoes. A wide-brimmed hat with netting covered the face, giving the unidentified woman a secret allure.
“Come on,” Bitty said, grabbing Ceecee’s hand and not waiting for Margaret to follow. “Let’s go look at the engagement rings.”
Aware of how Margaret might feel about it, Ceecee tried to pull away, but Bitty wouldn’t let her. “She should be happy for you,” Bitty said, not letting go. “A real friend would be.”
They were almost at the jewelry store when Ceecee glanced back and saw Margaret slowly following them, her gaze focused on the parked car at the curb.
Bitty stopped at the store window, pointing out diamond engagement rings, her eyes occasionally turning to the reflection of the car and the woman seated inside. There was a high trill of laughter, and Ceecee turned in time to see a small gloved hand accept a small black velvet bag from the jeweler, but no offer of payment. The woman said good-bye, and the door shut before the car pulled away and disappeared down the street.
“Did she steal the jewelry?” Ceecee asked, shocked that a shopkeeper would openly be doing business with a prostitute.
“No,” Bitty said with a condescending air. “Apparently, most of the women have accounts at the businesses downtown. During the Depression, the owners liked to see Hazel and her girls walk through their doors. Can’t imagine them turning them away now.”
Ceecee shook her head. “I can’t believe that just happened in front of me,” she said, making room at the window for Margaret. “I wonder if my parents know about it.”
“Oh, they know,” Bitty said. “The Sunset Lodge has been there since the thirties. When your daddy preaches against fornication, that’s most likely what he’s referring to.”
At first, Ceecee thought she was listening to a mewling kitten, but when she didn’t see one, she looked up at Margaret, who was crying again, but it was different this time. Her sobs were so quiet, it was as if her hurt had turned in on itself, unable to find a way out.
Margaret pressed her gloved hands against the glass window, holding herself up as her body shook with silent sobs. Bitty met Ceecee’s eyes, and a worried glance passed between them. It was Bitty who took Margaret’s arm this time, led her to a bench, and sat next to her as Ceecee remained standing and did her best to hide her from passersby.
“Margaret, please. Speak to us. Tell us how we can help you.” Bitty was holding Margaret’s hands in hers.
In between hiccups, Margaret finally spoke. “That . . . woman. I wanted to speak . . . with her.”
“Why on earth would you want to speak with a prostitute?” Ceecee whispered the last word.
“Because she . . . might be able to help me. To tell me . . . what to do.” She paused to take a deep gulp of air. “Aren’t they supposed to be experienced with these kinds of things?”
Bitty sat up straight, looking at Margaret with an expression that said she couldn’t quite believe what she’d heard.
“What do you mean?” Ceecee asked. “What on earth could a prostitute tell you?”
Ignoring Ceecee, Bitty hissed, “You don’t want that, Margaret. You know you don’t. You could die. That’s a whole lot worse than any shame you think you need to hide from the world. You and Reggie love each other. There’s no shame in that.”
Bitty reached into her pocketbook, pulled out her cigarettes, and lit one, regardless of what Ceecee or anyone else might think. “We need to reach Reggie. Let him know.”
Margaret squeezed Bitty’s arm, her nails unkempt and chewed down to the quick. “He’ll come back for me then, won’t he?”
“I don’t know,” Bitty said softly. “But we have to at least try. For everyone’s sake.” She looked at Ceecee when she said that, and it made her shiver.
“Would someone please tell me what’s going on?” Ceecee said, loudly enough that a man and woman walking nearby looked up.
Bitty smiled at them and waited for them to pass before taking another deep drag from her cigarette. “She’s pregnant, Ceecee. Margaret’s going to have a baby.”
Ceecee sat down heavily next to Margaret, sick to her stomach as all sorts of thoughts ran through her head, the most shameful one being that Margaret couldn’t be her bridesmaid now since she would certainly be showing by the time Ceecee walked down the aisle.
“Have you told your parents?” she asked.
Margaret shook her head. “How can I? They’d be so ashamed. They’d disown me.”
Ceecee put her arm around Margaret’s shoulders. “I know this is hard. But you love Reggie and he loves you, and you’re going to have a baby. A baby! Reggie’s baby. I know this isn’t what you planned, but it’s not the end of the world. You know that, right?”
It took a moment, but Margaret finally nodded.
Ceecee continued. “If we put our heads together, we can come up with a plan. We’ll help you figure out what to do. You’re not alone. Bitty and I are here. We’re friends forever, remember?”
She looked over Margaret’s head at Bitty for confirmation. But Bitty simply stared at her, then blew out a mouthful of smoke, obscuring her face.
twenty-one
Larkin
2010
I parked my rental car at the curb in front of the Lynches’ house and picked up the macaroni casserole Ceecee had given me to take to Sunday dinner. I paused before heading down the familiar front walk, staring up at the white Victorian with its deep wraparound porch. Weeds still grew between the pavers, and Mrs. Lynch’s vinca and ageratum shouted and waved from various pots on the porch and beds in the yard. I knew if I looked closely at the corner of the third paver from the end, I’d see my initials carved next to those of Mabry and Bennett. Immortalized together in concrete.
“They’re still there,” Mabry called from the porch where she sat in a metal rocker with Ellis in her lap.
I stopped to look down, and saw she was right. The space next to our initials, reserved at the time for the initials of our future children, was filled only with green lichen.
“Sure are.” I continued walking, listening to the strains of music sifting through the screened door. “‘What Kind of Fool (Do You Think I Am)’ by Bill Deal and the Rhondels.”
“Dang, you’re good,” Mabry said as she stood, placing Ellis on his feet. “I’m going to assume you’re right, because I have no idea. You could be making stuff up for all I know.”
“Maybe I am.”
“Ha. You couldn’t lie if you wanted to. I think that’s why all the kids in school were scared of you—because they knew you’d tell them stuff they didn’t want to hear. Of all the things Ceecee taught you, that one’s a keeper for sure.”
“Seriously? It was a good thing for my peers to avoid me?”
“Sure. If they didn’t want to hear the truth, then they wouldn’t have been worthy of being your friend.” She sniffed deeply. “Let me guess—Ceecee’s macaroni casserole.”
“Of course. Some things never change.”
“Thank goodness,” Mabry said, lifting Ellis to get a better look.
A memory hit me, and my mouth actually salivated. “Did your mother make her special cake?”
“Of course. She knew you were coming.”
“Some things never change,” I repeated, laughing this time.
But Mabry didn’t laugh. Instead, she peered closely at me, her green eyes just like her brother’s. “Learning who you are and changing aren’t always the same thing, you know. Sometimes we think we’ve changed, but all we’ve done is grow into the person we were always meant to be.”
While I was still mulling over her words, she took the casserole from my hands. “Bennett’s in the garage, sorting through those boxes of papers that belonged to our grandfather. Said to send you back when you got here.”
Anticipating my next question, she said, “And no, Mama and I don’t need your help in the kitchen. We’ve got it covered.”
I smiled at her departing back, wondering how I’d learned to survive without a friend who knew me better than I knew myself.
I walked down the driveway—two dirt tracks with a grassy strip down the middle—toward the detached garage at the back of the house. As long as I’d known the Lynches, they’d never used it to park cars. It had always been filled with what Mabry, Bennett, and I had thought of as treasure. Old, discarded toys and clothing from different eras, ancient tools and holiday decorations, and an entire assortment of forgotten detritus of past lives. It was heaven to us as children, and as I approached it, I felt a thrum of nostalgia.
Inside, Bennett sat on a steamer trunk in front of an ancient card table shoved against the far wall. Several stacks of papers were piled in front of him, and he was slowly flipping through the pages when I greeted him and he looked up.
“Hey, Larkin,” he said, and the sound of my name did something twisty to my insides. He stood and shoved the steamer trunk over to make room for a chair with a vinyl cushion that wore most of its stuffing on the outside. “Your pick,” he said, indicating the seats.
“I think there’s room for both of us on the trunk. I can’t see you sitting on crumbling foam.” I sat down on the trunk and slid over, absently patting the space next to me while glancing down at the papers. There were several nearly transparent official-looking forms with smeared black type as if they’d come from an ancient mimeograph machine, and a small pile of yellowed newspaper clippings.
“What am I looking at?” I asked, painfully aware of Bennett sliding onto the trunk next to me, and trying not to notice how close he was, or how I felt a jolt each time his forearm brushed mine.
“These were all in a single folder. It was with a bunch of other files that had probably been in my grandfather’s desk drawer when he was fire chief—nothing original or confidential. This was the only file that seemed to contain information about a single case.”
“The fire at Carrowmore?”
Bennett nodded, then began rifling through a stack, pulling something out from near the top. “I thought you might want to see this.” He slid one of the clippings in front of me, and I found myself holding my breath. “It’s a photo of Margaret, your grandmother, but it looks just like you, doesn’t it?”
I nodded, staring at the strange yet familiar face in black-and-white of my grandmother in her wedding dress. She wore a lace veil that framed her oval face and looked to be light blond like me, her eyes and nose and lips shaped exactly as my own. Her jaw was softer, her cheekbones not as pronounced, but there could be no denying that we were closely related.
A longing to have known her, to remember what her voice sounded like or what it felt like to have my hair stroked by her hand consumed me, constricting my throat as if filling it with ashes. I studied her face, desperately wanting to understand why her memory had been erased from my past. In that photo she seemed to be looking at me, begging me to hear her story, as if in hearing hers, I would finally understand my own.
“It’s her obituary,” Bennett said softly.
I nodded, taking note of the day she died. October 16, 1954. “The day after Hurricane Hazel
, right?”
“Yes. And the day of the fire. What’s really interesting is that my grandfather kept all of the nonrecords and records in a file together in his office. And he chose to bring them home when he retired.”
“Were our families close, then?”
He shook his head. “Not according to my mother. She says her family first met Ceecee and Ivy when they moved into the house on River Street after the fire. Ivy and my mama started school together and became best friends.”
“Maybe because it was such a tragic story, he wanted to save a reminder of it,” I offered.
“We’re talking about my grandfather here, remember. I don’t think he had a sentimental bone in his body. When he moved out to the fishing cabin after my grandmother died, he got rid of everything except for a few essentials. And this box.”
He pulled out the official-looking form I’d glanced at before and moved it in front of me. Even though Georgetown County Fire Department was written at the top of the page, it took me a few moments to realize what I was looking at.
Bennett tapped his index finger to lines at the top. “Your grandmother’s name.”
I followed to where he pointed, and I realized I was looking at a box on the form labeled Deceased. Next to it, Cause of death: smoke inhalation.
I let out a sigh of relief. I’d been imagining my grandmother burning to death, one of those horrible ways to die that always made the hypothetical “Which would you prefer?” lists. But she’d died instead of smoke inhalation, which was, although still awful, maybe not as agonizing as being burned alive.
My gaze slowly slid to the box below it, the one labeled Cause of fire. And there, in plain black ink on yellowed paper, the single word undetermined. Beneath it, in pale blue pen, someone had handwritten the word suspicious and underscored it twice.
I sat back, trying to place a distance between the paper and me. “What does that mean?” I knew what it meant, of course. I just needed someone else to say it out loud before I could believe it, and I was suddenly glad that Bennett was right there, sitting so close to me that I could lean on him if I needed to.
