by Karen White
The yellow dress lay like a puddle of spent moonlight on the floor, its presence a glaring accusation of my stubborn inability to see things as they were. The gold charms on my necklace winked back at their reflection, seeming to mock my inability to figure out who I really was.
My growing-up years had been spent seeing only what I wanted. I’d believed everything Ceecee told me. With Bennett and Mabry in the cheering section, I never had any doubt that what I was seeing was real. Until that day on the boat when I saw everything unfiltered for the first time.
I’d run away because I didn’t see any other options. Besides being unwilling to relive my mortification every time I saw someone I knew from school, I’d lost my two best friends. I needed to start someplace new, to find my own way without effusive praise and blind encouragement. And I had. I’d graduated with honors and found a career I was good at. I’d become healthier in mind and body. I thought I’d forgotten the past, my need for applause. My craving for approval and admiration from the one person who didn’t deserve either one. I thought I’d changed.
Sometimes we think we’ve changed when really all we’ve done is grow into the person we were always meant to be. Mabry had said that. I needed to tell her she was wrong. That some people are too stupid and pathetic to change or grow. That some of us are simply destined to continue repeating the same mistakes until we die. Maybe the fantasy world I’d lived in for the first eighteen years of my life had robbed me of the ability to face reality.
I looked at my reflection again, and saw Margaret as she’d been on her trip with her two best friends to Myrtle Beach. She was an enigma to me, her story untold. Or hidden—I wasn’t sure which. Her daughter, my mother, lay in a coma from which there appeared to be no awakening. How disappointed they must be with me, their only living legacy.
I’d thought I’d be returning to Georgetown in glory, a newer and better version of myself. Out to prove something, to fulfill a perverse desire to show the likes of Jackson Porter that I was a woman to be admired, not mocked. That he was no longer out of my league. Of course, if I were really a new and improved version of myself, I would have realized long ago that Jackson was the unworthy one. But that’s the thing with self-denial. Nobody can tell you what an idiot you’re being except yourself.
I closed my eyes, once again feeling the shame and humiliation of the night. The feel of Jackson’s lips on mine. My fists pushing him away. Bennett pulling him from the car, and Mabry zipping up my dress and putting her arm around me as if I were a little child who needed protecting.
My gaze slipped across the floor to my suitcase. I’d decided it was time to go. I’d visit my mother in the hospital one more time, then drive to the airport and take the first flight to New York. I’d come back if there was any change in Mama’s condition, but I couldn’t stay. I couldn’t face Mabry and Bennett after what Jackson had said tonight, and with what they must think about me, knowing I’d willingly gone out with him despite their warnings. I knew I was running away again. At least everyone could agree that was the one thing I was very good at.
My phone buzzed, and I flipped it over to look at the screen. There were eight missed calls from Bennett, and he was in the process of leaving me a voice mail. I didn’t pick up. Every time I saw his name on my screen, all I could think of was the look on his face when I’d told him that everything Jackson had said was true.
I started to place the phone facedown but hesitated when I saw the missed 843 number under Bennett’s. The call had come in while Mabry and I had been getting dressed, which seemed like a million hours before, and whoever it was had left a voice mail.
Already realizing that sleep wouldn’t be an option tonight, I clicked on the icon and listened.
Hi, Larkin. This is Gabriel. I was rearranging the tables and chairs in the shop, and I pulled out the ones in front of your mama’s mural. I was able to get a real good look at all those tiny details she likes to add, and I think we missed one of them the last time you were here—something she painted in a bottom-floor window of the house. It’s another person—a man—staring out the window, and there’s fire behind him. The thing is, he’s carrying something. Looks like a child. So, thought you might want to know, maybe even come by to see. There’s a free cup of frozen yogurt in it for you.
I listened to the message once more, then replaced the phone on top of the dressing table, trying to recall the mural. I remembered the two women in one of the upstairs windows, and another downstairs. Now, according to Gabriel, there was another face inside the burning house. A man. And he was carrying a child. I recalled the mural my mother had painted in my bedroom at my parents’ house, the four martins flying overhead in the painted sky, each carrying a ribbon in its mouth, as if each were transporting a separate message to the thin place.
I stood to head toward the bathroom to shower and dress, but caught sight of the alarm clock by my bed. It was just past midnight. I felt as if I’d lived a lifetime since I’d headed out for the dance at six thirty. I sat down on the bed, accepting that Gabriel’s shop would be closed and it was too early to visit the hospital. I was about to lie down, when I heard a familiar clattering on my window.
Bennett. I wanted to ignore it, to pretend I was asleep. But my lamp was on, and he’d already seen it. He was the last person—or second to last—I wanted to see, and I couldn’t imagine why he’d want to talk to me. The look on his face as he’d left had spoken volumes.
The sound came again, harder this time, as if he was using larger stones. Afraid he’d break the window, I reluctantly slid it open, then leaned out into the humid night air. Ceecee had left on the back-porch light, so even though his face was shadowed, I could make out Bennett’s tall form standing on the ground beneath my window.
“Did I wake you?” he asked.
Even though he couldn’t see, I rolled my eyes. After all that had happened, that was not what I’d expected to hear. “No, you didn’t. I had to get up to open my window anyway.”
“Funny,” he said. “I wanted to see if you were okay.”
Something wasn’t right about the way he sounded. It was almost like he had a sock in his mouth. “Have you been drinking?”
He stepped back into the light and looked up. “No. Although I’d like to start. Alcohol might sting my lip, though.”
I pressed my elbows into the sill and leaned over for a better look. His face was blotchy and shiny in parts, his mouth swollen. One of his eyes was completely shut. I jerked back, hitting my head on the bottom of the raised window. “Oh, my gosh—what happened to you?” Although I was pretty sure I already knew.
“You should see the other guy.”
“Hang on,” I said. “I’ll bring ice.” I bumped my head again in my haste to get back inside; then, leaving the window sash open, I rushed downstairs to the kitchen, grabbed one of Ceecee’s dishrags, and filled a bowl with ice from the freezer. I tripped over the rug runner in the hallway as I rushed to the back door and threw it open.
Bennett was sitting on the back steps. I sat down next to him and wrapped a handful of ice in the dishrag. I held it in front of his face, unsure where to start.
“My eye,” he suggested.
Gently, I pressed it against his swollen eye, making him wince. “Easy,” he said. He took the ice from me and held it to his eye while I surveyed the rest of his face.
“You look like you’ve been in a wreck,” I said.
“Yeah, well, if it’s any consolation, Jackson looks a whole lot worse.”
“Is he in the hospital?”
“He would be if someone hadn’t stopped me.”
“Who else was there?” I asked.
He managed to look sheepish even with the swollen mouth and dishrag held to his eye.
“Tell me,” I insisted, pretty sure I knew what he was going to say.
“Some girl who works in his office. She was at his house
when I rang the doorbell.”
“Oh,” I said, sitting back. “What a jerk.”
“Yeah, that’s what I said, although I’ll admit to using stronger language. That’s why I gave him one last punch. I think I may have broken his nose.”
“Good.” I looked at him in the light of the porch. The bruises on his face somehow added to his appeal. “But why, Bennett? When you left, you were so angry with me. And disgusted. I didn’t think you’d ever want to see me again.”
His one good eye widened in disbelief. “I was angry. And disgusted. But not with you. Never with you, Larkin. You’ve always been this fearless, free spirit. So brave and original. Remember that talent show . . . ?”
I put my hand on his arm. “Please stop.”
He started to smile, then winced as his lip cracked. “Yeah, well, listening to Jackson tonight made me angry at myself. Everybody knew what happened nine years ago, I guess, except me. Either I was really oblivious, or the guys knew I’d never have let it happen, so they didn’t tell me. Jackson needed to have the crap beaten out of him back then. Maybe I could have protected you from what happened tonight. Maybe I’d have protected you back then if I’d just been paying attention. I’m sorry. I know that’s pitiful and way too late, but I am really, really sorry.”
My chest got warm as if my heart were expanding, pressing against my ribs and making it hard for me to breathe. I took his free hand in mine, careful not to touch his scraped knuckles, then gently lifted it to my mouth and kissed it. “Thank you,” I whispered. “I know that’s pitifully lacking, but thank you.”
His one good eye regarded me in the dim light, and my stomach did a little flip. I had to remind myself that this was Bennett, the boy I’d grown up with. The young man who’d given me a standing ovation at every performance and clapped like he meant it. He’d called me fearless, brave, and original. And for the first time in my life, I thought I could begin to believe it. I leaned forward and pressed my forehead into his neck, breathing in his scent, as familiar as it was enticing. “I want you to know that I didn’t know about the bet, either. If I had, I wouldn’t have gone out with him again. Even my stupidity has its limits.”
I felt him smile. “Larkin?”
“Hmm?”
“I know you don’t like talking about that talent show, but I thought I should mention something about it that might change your mind.”
I sat up, our faces close. “What?”
“That was the night I realized I was hopelessly and pathetically in love with you. I still am.”
I opened my mouth to speak or breathe or do both because I needed to, but only a single sound came out. “Oh.”
The door behind us opened, and Ceecee poked her head out. She wore old-fashioned bristle curlers held in place with bobby pins—insistent they were better than curling irons or anything invented in the last forty years—and my grandfather’s plaid robe, belted tightly around her slight frame. “I thought I heard people talking.” She caught sight of Bennett. “Oh, my. You’d better come in and let me take a look at your face.”
Bitty appeared behind Ceecee, and the two older women clucked and fussed over Bennett as they brought him into the kitchen. Ceecee went to the sink and began filling another bowl with warm water as Bitty got close to Bennett.
“Your beautiful face,” she said with a wink. “I like this rugged addition.” She leaned in closer. “Jackson, I presume?”
Bennett nodded.
“Good. I hope he looks worse than you. If not, I’ll go hit him with my pocketbook until he does.”
Ceecee sat down at the kitchen table with the bowl of water and dipped a dishrag in it with a little soap. “I’m guessing that Jackson wasn’t the nice boy I thought he was.”
Bitty’s laugh became a cough as she gave a gentle fist bump to Bennett’s bruised hand.
“No, Ceecee. Jackson is definitely not a nice boy,” I said.
She nodded, her lips pressed tightly together. “Glad you had this nice boy to help you figure that out.”
I glanced at Bennett. His good eye was on me, his lips lifting in a half smile. I blushed, recalling what he’d said outside on the porch. That was the night I realized I was hopelessly and pathetically in love with you. I still am. I quickly looked away, pretending to mix the soap into the water. How had I not known how he felt? I had a strong suspicion that Jackson had something to do with it. Not to mention the pervasive cluelessness I’d clung to like a life raft since I was old enough to talk.
Eager to change the conversation, I said, “I just picked up a voice mail from Gabriel. He found something interesting in the mural Mama painted in his shop.”
Bitty sat up straighter, and Ceecee seemed to be very focused on looking for Band-Aids in her kitchen drawer.
“You know how Mama liked to hide pictures in her murals? She did in Gabriel’s, too. I saw it before—it’s a beautiful scene of you two with my grandmother at Carrowmore, sitting near the Tree of Dreams. I think it’s somehow tied to the mural in my bedroom at Mama’s, where she painted four martins flying in front of Carrowmore, each with a ribbon in its mouth.”
“Four, huh?” Bitty said, her hand twitching as if searching for a cigarette. “I wonder what Ivy meant.”
“Gabriel said he found something else while he was moving tables in the shop. He saw two more people inside the house. One was a man, and it looked like he was carrying a child.”
Bitty and Ceecee glanced at each other, but didn’t say anything.
“Well,” Bennett said, his gaze focused on the pink water in the bowl, “she painted five people inside the house when it was on fire—three women, a man, and a little girl. We know that Margaret and Ceecee were in the house, so my guess would be that they’re two of the women.”
“One of them had red hair,” I said, looking at Bitty, whose fingers continued to twitch as she tried to appear uninterested.
“The man could have been a firefighter,” Bitty said helpfully.
I shook my head. “No—Mama was found with Ceecee outside the house when the firemen arrived. Could it have been Granddaddy?”
“He was at the hospital,” Ceecee said without hesitation. “He’d called me earlier and said that’s where he’d be for the duration of the storm. He was looking for Margaret and Ivy. Margaret was supposed to have taken Ivy to Augusta, you see . . .”
“And she didn’t?”
“No.” Ceecee dropped the washcloth in the bowl, then took the ice Bennett had been holding up to his eye and stood to empty it in the sink. “She said she felt safer at Carrowmore. It had been standing for more than two hundred years and had withstood so many storms already.”
“Just not fire,” Bitty said softly.
“Assuming the other two figures are Bitty and Granddaddy, why would Mama paint them in the house if they weren’t there?” I picked absently at my chipped nail, worrying it with my thumb.
“When she wakes up, we can ask her,” Ceecee said, letting the faucet run. But even her optimism had waned, her words as empty as our hope that my mother would wake up.
I continued to flick my cracked nail, faster now as if trying to keep up with my racing thoughts.
“Remember when I was at Carrowmore, and I found two ribbons in the tree? They were both new, so I assumed Mama put them there. One said, ‘I miss you. I wish I’d been given the chance to know you.’ I’m pretty sure that was Mama, and she must have been talking about Margaret. She was only two when her mother died.”
No one said anything until Bennett asked, “And the other one?”
“It said, ‘Forgive me.’ The words were painted, instead of written with a marker, so it was hard to tell if the handwriting came from the same person. Hang on. I’ve got them upstairs—I’ll go get them.”
I made to stand, but Ceecee touched my arm. “Let’s talk about this in the morning, after we’ve al
l had some rest. I’m so exhausted, I can barely hold my eyes open. Bennett, you are welcome to sleep on the couch. Let me get you some fresh ice for your eye . . .”
“No.” The word came out as a shout. My emotions were raw, my patience having already run its course. I didn’t want to wait. I’d been a passive bystander to my own life for too long. “I’ll be right back.” I ran upstairs and joggled the vanity drawer to get it to open, the cigar box on top sliding toward me from the movement. I shoved it back, snagging my nail again, then grabbed the ribbons and ran back downstairs.
Three sets of eyes were watching me as I placed the ribbons on the table. “See?” I flipped on more lights to get a better look. I studied the words more closely, this time noticing how different they were, how the shapes of the letters were completely separate.
Bennett smoothed down a fold in one of the ribbons, the scrapes on his knuckles making my heart squeeze again. I pressed my fist against my chest, as if that could somehow cure my reaction, not yet wanting to be distracted.
“Definitely written by two different people,” Bennett said, sliding back against his chair.
My gaze traveled between Bitty and Ceecee. “So if Mama wrote the first one, who wrote the other? Who would need forgiveness?”
“Could be the same person who’s been tending the martin houses,” Bennett suggested.
“I don’t think so.” I shook my head. “I think that was Mama. She must have known the legend about Carrowmore and the martins—that it would only be there as long as there were martins on the grounds.” I frowned, trying to think not of the frail woman in the hospital bed, but of the little girl who’d lived at Carrowmore for the first two years of her life, and lost her mother so young. The house was her only connection to the woman she barely remembered.
The silence in the kitchen was almost deafening as the two older women avoided looking at each other and Bitty’s fingers continued to twitch. I was exhausted, as I’m sure we all were, and I knew we all needed to sleep, but my mind wouldn’t shut down. The self-examination I’d been forced into earlier in the evening wouldn’t allow it. I had twenty-seven years of obliviousness to make up for.
