Dreams of Falling

by Karen White

  “I know what you mean,” Mabry said, even though I hadn’t said anything. “Kind of full of herself, you know?”

  “Exactly,” I said, looking at the nose, the brow, the cheeks. All of which could have been mine.

  Mabry reached over and flipped the page. “Oooh—the beach!”

  The first photo was of the three girls posed in front of the convertible next to a large sign that read WELCOME TO MYRTLE BEACH. I looked up at Mabry. “Ceecee told me about this trip—it was a high school graduation gift from my great-grandparents. They would have been . . .”

  “About seventeen or eighteen. Which makes this . . .” Mabry squinted one eye as she did the mental calculations.

  “Don’t hurt yourself. I’m happy to get a calculator.”

  “Nineteen fifty-one!” she shouted triumphantly.

  I would have guessed early fifties, judging by the clothing and cars. But I wasn’t sure I would have recognized Myrtle Beach. There weren’t any high-rises or tacky tourist shops or packs of motorcycles. Just peaceful neighborhood streets with small, unassuming cottages and inns lined up on both sides, colorful names like THE JUANITA and THE PERISCOPE on signs in the yards.

  “Wow—doesn’t even look like the same place, does it?” Mabry said, echoing my thoughts.

  I flipped a page and saw a photo of an open black iron gate topped with the words MYRTLE BEACH PAVILION. A palmetto tree motif was emblazoned at the top, on either side, and behind that, I could see the Ferris wheel and carousel, which were only legend now.

  “I can’t believe they tore all this down,” I said. “When was that—four years ago? I remember reading about it in New York and crying. A piece of history wiped out so they could build more condos.”

  I shook my head, then bent close to the pages, looking at the faces of the tourists waiting in line at the various concessions. “I remember going there with you and Bennett and getting sick from eating junk food and going on the rides.” I smiled. “Those were good times.”

  “You, me, and Bennett went there once with Ceecee, remember?” Mabry asked. “She was feeling nostalgic and said she’d look silly all by herself, so she brought us kids. We were about ten years old, I think.”

  I nodded, remembering riding the carousel and eating popcorn and cotton candy for dinner. I had an odd memory, too, of Ceecee. How we three kids were hollering and laughing and having the best time of our lives, but she seemed close to tears. I thought at the time it was because she wasn’t a kid anymore, and that was making her sad. But now, seeing these pictures of her with Margaret and Bitty, I thought I understood why.

  I sat back in my chair. “Remember that long, circular drive she showed us on North Ocean Boulevard? It didn’t lead to anything, but she said that’s where the grand Ocean Forest Hotel used to be. She cried, but I didn’t say anything because she hardly seemed aware we were there.”

  Mabry was impatiently pulling at the corner of the page. “Look, Larkin—boys!”

  “Seriously, Mabry?” I said, annoying her by turning the page very slowly. “I’ve seen boys before.”

  She yanked the page from my hand and laid it flat. “Yeah, but I think one of these guys might be your grandfather.”

  She had my attention now. The two facing pages were filled with photo-booth pictures with cardboard cutouts with holes where the faces should be. The first two were of Bitty and Ceecee as a fat and skinny swimmer, respectively, wearing old-fashioned bathing suits. The next was of a mermaid-type figure with Miss Myrtle Beach written across her scales, and Margaret’s beautiful face peering innocently from the opening.

  But it was the next photo that captured my attention. The sign painted at the top read MYRTLE BEACH JAIL, and behind cardboard bars were two young men trying to look miserable. I looked closer at the young men in the black-and-white photo, trying to remember my grandfather from my girlhood. He’d died when I was about eight, so I didn’t have many memories of him. “My mother has that same hairline, doesn’t she? And definitely his nose.”

  “No, silly—not him. The other guy. I just thought because he looked so nice, he’d be your grandfather. Although, to be honest, they actually resemble each other. They must be related.”

  I shook my head, pointing to the first man, and then the second. “I think it’s that one—definitely.”

  Mabry nodded. “You might be right. We can ask Ceecee later.” She reached over and flipped to the next page. “That’s odd.” She turned the album to face me. “It’s blank.”

  I took the album from her and thumbed through the remaining pages, all empty. “That is odd. I wonder why. There had to be my grandparents’ wedding pretty soon after, right?”

  “What year were they married?” Mabry asked.

  “I don’t have a clue. Except . . .” I thought for a moment. “My mother was born in 1952, so Margaret must have been married in ’fifty-one or ’fifty-two.”

  “And Hurricane Hazel happened in 1954. I can understand why Ceecee wouldn’t have any photos after ’fifty-four, but why not before? I’m sure she and Bitty would have been bridesmaids or co–maids of honor or something at Margaret’s wedding.”

  “You’d think, wouldn’t you?” My eyes fell on the envelope full of loose photos. “Unless they’re in here.”

  I took out the photos and gave half of them to Mabry. We were silent for a while as we flipped through them. I paused at a photo of my mother, about age five, standing in between Ceecee and a man I assumed was my grandfather, their faces cut off by the camera as they swung a laughing little Ivy in the air.

  “It’s nice to know Mama had a happy childhood,” I said, indicating the stack of photos that all included my mother during different holidays or school events or vacations, most showing Ceecee touching her or standing nearby. “But I don’t see any photos beyond her growing-up years.”

  “I have a few of her with my uncle Ellis.” Mabry slid three Polaroid photos toward me. “Looks like a prom or something. They’re both wearing corsages.”

  The photographs were all taken in the backyard of Ceecee’s house, their backs to the river. Mama looked beautiful with long, straight blond hair parted in the middle, wearing a long prairie-style dress, a large magnolia blossom fastened to her wrist as a corsage. I couldn’t tell if her bare toes meant she was wearing sandals or was barefoot. Probably barefoot, I decided. Because that was the way she would dress for a formal event.

  In all three photos she was gazing up at Ellis, tall and handsome despite the powder blue velour tuxedo, mustache, and sideburns that Elvis Presley would have envied. He was glancing at Mama sideways, as if he knew he should be looking at the camera but couldn’t take his eyes off her.

  Mabry stood and put her arm around my shoulder and squeezed, making me realize that I’d started to cry. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have shown that to you.”

  I shook my head. “No. I’m glad you did. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her look so completely happy. She loved him, didn’t she? Really loved him.”

  Mabry nodded. “That’s what Mama said. But she also said that your mama never regretted marrying your daddy. She loved him, too. He always thought her heart was secondhand by the time he got it, but Mama said that secondhand doesn’t mean used or worn-out. It means it’s become wise and seasoned. Of course, your mama also said that the most love she’d ever known was the love she had for you.”

  I met my friend’s eyes, knowing she wouldn’t judge the tears freely flowing down my cheeks. I cleared my throat and used one of the ice-cream napkins to wipe my face. “Did you see any photos of Mama and me? Any of me wearing a tiara, a tutu, and my sparkly red shoes? She said in an e-mail she’d found it in an envelope and was going to send it to me. But that was the day she disappeared.”

  “Nothing,” Mabry said. “Maybe she put it in your bedroom?”

  “No. Daddy already checked.” I sat back, recalling my co
nversation with my father. “He mentioned she’d been refurbishing my grandfather’s desk. Maybe it’s in the detached garage.”

  Mabry was already standing. “Come on, then—let’s go look.” She was out the back door before I stood to follow.

  By the time I caught up to her, she’d flipped on the overhead light, illuminating a nearly empty garage that smelled of dust, paint thinner, and time. Standing in the center of the space, directly beneath a large light fixture with a bare bulb, was an ancient partners desk. The finish had been sanded from the surface, and bared wood made the desk look like a naked chicken. Bottles of different liquids and paint, along with brushes, rags, and newspaper, littered the floor. The drawers had been pulled out and stacked against one wall, but after a cursory glance, I could tell that they were empty.

  We both examined the desk but found nothing. “I’ll keep looking,” I said. “And I’ll ask my coworker Josephine to check my mail and see if Mama mailed it. I probably have an avalanche in my foyer by now, anyway. I wasn’t planning on being here this long.”

  “Me, neither,” said Mabry, smiling softly. “And I’m sorry it took your mama’s accident to bring you back. But I’m glad you’re here. I’ve missed you.”

  I was already backing out of the shed, knowing her well enough to anticipate what her next words would be.

  “We need to talk about that day on the boat. We need to talk about what happened.”

  I was shaking my head, moving forward without looking back. I was so good at it now, I didn’t even need to think about it. “We really don’t,” I said.

  “Larkin, please.”

  Something in the tone of her voice made me stop and turn around.

  “This is your home. I don’t want misunderstandings to keep you away. Don’t you miss us? Don’t you miss the smell of the marsh early in the morning? Or the sounds of the creeks when you sit really still in a paddleboat? I would. I think my heart and soul would shrink if I had to spend months without seeing the sun rise over the sea oats. Don’t you feel that way, too?”

  I kept walking toward the door of Ceecee’s house, my stride purposeful so Mabry wouldn’t suspect that I wanted to stop and run to her and tell her yes to all of the above. That I sometimes woke up with wet cheeks because I dreamed of the creeks and rivers of my childhood, missing them like the tides would miss the moon.

  But I didn’t. Nine years spent telling myself that I couldn’t go home again made my separation permanent and official. I was nothing if not decisive.

  I paused at the back door and faced her again. “Thanks for the ice cream—and tell Ellis that I’m glad he’s feeling better. I’ll see you around.”

  Mabry stood there, watching me, the same expression on her face that I remembered from the last time I’d seen her, before I left nine years ago, right before I threw a cooler at her head that pushed her into the dark water of the Sampit River.

  twenty-seven

  Ceecee

  1951

  Ceecee and Bitty sat in the white parlor, staring at the tea tray with its untouched sandwiches and sweating glasses of iced tea. Summer had appeared with a vengeance, as if it wanted to match Ceecee’s internal misery.

  An antique French porcelain carriage clock ticked incessantly on the desk, reminding Ceecee of flies battering their hard black bodies against a closed window until Bitty forcibly made it stop. In other circumstances, Ceecee would have told her to be careful not to damage the fragile antique, but she could no longer find it in herself to care about such trivial things.

  Unable to sit still any longer, Ceecee jumped to her feet. “I’ve got to find out what’s going on. I can’t stand not knowing for one more moment.”

  Bitty stood, too, but her eyes were wary. “Sometimes it’s best to wait, even if it just means postponing the knowing.”

  Ceecee turned on her with an unexpected fury. “Knowing what? I don’t know anything except Margaret is near death with grief, and her baby’s life is hanging in the balance. And the man I love is the only person she will talk to. The only person who can help her.” She faced the door and took a step toward it before stopping. “If I go upstairs, if I force her to see me . . .”

  “It won’t accomplish anything,” Bitty said calmly, taking out her pack of cigarettes from her pocketbook and pulling one out. “Damn,” she said under her breath, crumpling the now-empty pack and tossing it across the room.

  Ceecee turned to look at her friend, her anger and frustration—her grief—momentarily defused. “I have a stash of Tootsie Rolls in my pocketbook if you need them. I save the ones you give me because I don’t like them.” She wasn’t sure why she was being honest about that now. Maybe because she was so raw and bare, and felt the need to shed what skin still clung to her aching bones.

  “If I had another cigarette, I’d offer you one,” Bitty said, only half joking.

  The sound of slow footsteps coming down the grand staircase caught their attention. Bitty waited while Ceecee ran out into the foyer, feeling all the past Darlingtons looking down their aristocratic noses at her in their portraits. Her gaze skimmed over them to the tall figure carefully making his way down the stairs, his hand tightly gripping the banister.

  “Boyd.” She’d meant to say it in a normal tone of voice, but his name came out as if her mouth were coated with feathers.

  He looked awful. His face was pale and drawn, his hair uncombed as if he’d been repeatedly running his fingers through it. His collar was unbuttoned, his tie askew, his jacket discarded somewhere, and his sleeves rolled up to his forearms as if he was prepared to do battle.

  “Sessalee.”

  It didn’t sound like her name or his voice. It was a cry of defeat and longing, of frustration and grief, and it scared her enough that she turned toward the front door. She was grasping the handle before she felt his hands on her arms, his warmth behind her.

  “I need to tell you something,” he said, his voice tight, his mouth stingy with the words.

  “Don’t.” She wasn’t even sure what he needed to tell her, but she knew whatever it was would break her heart.

  The grip on her arms tightened as he pulled her against him, resting his chin on the top of her head. “I love you, Sessalee. From that first moment I saw you, remember?”

  She turned in his arms, stood on her tiptoes, and kissed the underside of his jaw before laying her head on his shoulder. “Then let’s run away. Far from here. We’ll get married and have children together and live happily ever after.”

  “Oh, my darling Sessalee. You have no idea how much I wish we could.”

  A thin crackling sound came from inside her chest, like that of stepping on a frozen puddle in the middle of winter and shattering its surface. She felt suspended in time, somehow, as if this all weren’t happening, or had already happened to someone else.

  They both turned at the sound of running feet moving up the staircase and saw Bitty pausing at the curve of the landing. She leaned over the railing. “I’m going to see if I can talk some sense into her.” She angrily brushed at the tears streaming down her cheeks. “This . . . It cannot be allowed.” Without another word, she disappeared around the graceful curve of the staircase, her feet heavy and quick.

  Ceecee had seen Bitty cry only once, when her favorite dog had died when they were twelve. And seeing her cry now, more than anything, chilled her heart. Ceecee could lie to herself and pretend that her darkest fear didn’t exist, could pretend that because she and Boyd loved each other they would be married and live the life they both dreamed of. But Bitty’s tears were nails in the coffin of Ceecee’s dream. There could be no more denying or pretending. No more dreaming. No more thinking that the Darlington luck would pull through one more time.

  But then again, she thought, it had. Just not for her.

  She tried to pull away from Boyd, but he held her tightly. Taking her hand, he led her through t
he front door and then around to the back of the house. She struggled again to make him let go when she realized where he was taking her.

  “Sessalee—please. Please. I need to show you something.”

  She allowed him to lead her to the giant oak tree near the bank of the river, resentful of the bright sun that glinted off the water and through the shiny leaves of the oak. “Let’s sit,” he said, pulling her down onto one of the thick roots protruding from the earth like an arthritic knuckle.

  Boyd took a deep breath before reaching into his shirt pocket and retrieving a white envelope. “Before Reggie left to enlist, he wrote two letters. One was for Margaret.” He pressed the letter into Ceecee’s cold and stiff fingers. Despite the heat of the day, she shivered.

  “This one was for me. It was sealed, and he left instructions for me not to open it unless something happened to him.”

  She looked at the torn flap of the envelope, and her breath caught in the back of her throat.

  “Read it,” Boyd said gently.

  She shook her head. “I can’t.”

  He waited for a long moment, and she felt his gaze on her, heard his breathing. Finally, he took the envelope from her and opened the letter inside before he began to read aloud.

  Dear Boyd,

  I’ve been doing a lot of thinking recently, and it occurred to me for the first time that I have never lived a day of my life without knowing you were in it, and knowing I was better off for it. You’ve always been the best big brother and role model a man could ever want. Even with our age difference, it never seemed that you and I were very far apart in the way we viewed the world and our place in it. I’m prouder than I could ever say to call you my brother.

  Ever since that summer on Folly Beach when I saved your life, I’ve always known that I was meant to be there. To maybe save you for better things. You’ve always said that you owed me your life, that you would go to the ends of the earth to repay the favor, but I never once viewed it that way at all. Yet perhaps you’ve been right all along. Maybe we both have.