The Myth of Perpetual Summer

by Susan Crandall

  This is the first time I’ve been thankful she was never a day-to-day mother. We learned to live without her a long time ago.

  Today, I sent Dharma and Walden to school for the first time in nearly two weeks. I hope their teacher has enough compassion to protect them from the cruel things third graders will no doubt say, little parrots of what they hear at home.

  I only venture out to go to the grocery store. I might never go back to school. Maisie called one day when Mrs. Delmore was out. She said her momma’s been down with sickness so she’s had to head straight home after work, but promised to come and see me as soon as she can. I know Maisie has burdens of her own, so I assured her I’m doing fine. In truth, hearing her voice just emphasized how little time she and I share these days.

  The spray-painted accusation remains scrawled on the front of our house, a stamp of hate, a stain of disgrace. We all pretend it isn’t there. Not even the death of our father has slowed the flow of anonymous letters, creepy phone calls, and unpleasant surprises left on our property. Dad’s drowning was no accident, despite Gran’s vehement claims, and everyone knows it. The discoveries the police made in his office—the stolen books, his paranoid scribbles, love letters from an anonymous student, bits and pieces of evidence spun as moral corruption and sexual misbehavior—have fueled an entirely new level of ridicule.

  At nine thirty I knock on Griff’s door. Although he has been among us, helping with the twins, comforting Gran, carrying Margo to bed after she passes out on the davenport, he hasn’t done much talking.

  “Come on in, Lulie.”

  When I open the door, Griff is standing on the braided rug between the twin beds. It takes me a second to process what I’m seeing. “Why are you packing?”

  “Sit down.” He moves the battered tan suitcase across the navy-blue plaid spread toward the head of the bed, making a place for me to sit.

  “No! Tell me what’s going on!” I don’t recognize my own voice, shrill and desperate.

  His hands tighten around the vertically striped cardigan he’s folding. “Mrs. Saenger invited me to stay with them in New Orleans. She’s picking me up at noon.”

  “You’re leaving?” I can’t believe my ears.

  “Lulie—”

  “You can’t!” My fist slams the solid muscles of his chest. He stumbles backward a half step. “You can’t just leave me here!”

  “It’s just for a while. Until things settle down.”

  “Uh-uh. No.” My index finger waggles under his nose. “Margo and Gran won’t let you, anyway.”

  “They already know. Gran was harder to convince than Margo.”

  “I can’t believe Gran agreed—”

  “If I’m gone, the calls and letters will stop. People will stop harassing the rest of you.”

  “Don’t you dare try to make it sound like you’re doing this for me. You sound just like Margo.”

  His face hardens. “Don’t say that. Don’t ever.”

  “Why shouldn’t I? It’s true. You’re leaving because you want to get away from everything here, to live in Ross’s perfect world, not because you’re trying to protect me. Just admit it!”

  He sits heavily on the bed and cradles his head in his hands and says something so low and muffled I can’t understand.

  “What?”

  “What if I am like Dad?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You’ve heard it. People say Granddad’s brother was like Dad. Crazy moods. Chasing after girls.”

  I cringe at the mention of Dad’s promiscuity. How could he and Margo be so obsessive about each other and still cheat? I don’t understand love at all.

  For a moment I study a jagged crack in the plaster over the closet door. “Do you think Dad was with that girl, you know, in that way?”

  He frowns. “You mean Lena?”

  I’m so unfamiliar with Elizabeth Taylor’s real first name it takes me a second to make the connection. “Do you think that’s who the love notes were from? Was he . . . responsible for her baby? I mean, maybe her suicide and his are because of the same thing.” As soon as I say it my conscience pipes up: Maybe you’re just looking for a reason you couldn’t have saved him.

  “She wasn’t the kind of moon-eyed girl who fell in love with her professor—or love at all, for that matter.” He pauses and then looks up at me. “And I don’t believe for a minute she committed suicide.”

  I instinctively glance over my shoulder to make certain no one heard him. “Why not?”

  “Because if there’s anyone on this earth who didn’t give a crap about her reputation, it was Lena. In fact, she seemed to revel in going against convention and making sure everyone noticed—especially her parents.”

  “So you do think she was murdered?”

  “I don’t know! Suicide just doesn’t seem possible. Maybe she was just drunk and fell. Not that it matters. Everyone thinks I threw her over that railing.”

  “Why don’t you tell the police what you just told me?”

  He looks at me, his eyes suddenly cold as winter frost. “I did. Her parents painted an entirely different picture of their beloved daughter to the police, pure as the driven snow and just as delicate.” He puts the folded cardigan in his suitcase. “You missed my point entirely.”

  “Which is?”

  “What if it’s true? What if I’m crazy like Dad and George? What if it’s just a matter of time before I lose all control? The best thing I can do is get away from you and the twins.”

  My heart takes flight. “I asked Gran once if Dad was always full of shadows and hurricanes. She said brilliant people are often moody.”

  “So?”

  “She didn’t say he got that way, that he changed. He just was always that way. You’re completely normal. You’re in the clear.”

  He doesn’t seem convinced as he reaches into the scarred old chest of drawers and pulls out a worn envelope. “There’s a hundred and thirty-three dollars in here.” He hands it to me, and I stare at it dumbly. “I wish it was more, but at least you won’t go hungry.” He snaps the latches on the suitcase, leaning his full weight on it to get it to close.

  Then he straightens and gives me a look that finishes off my already battered heart. “I can’t stay here, Lulie. Not even for you.”

  * * *

  If I had drowned that day, I wouldn’t be any worse off. Dead might be preferable to being alone with my guilt, resenting Gran, hating Ross for taking Griff, hating Griff for leaving me, hating Margo, hating this town. I would leave today if there was someone else to take care of the twins. Dharma is resilient enough to get along on the crumbs Margo offers. But Walden, he needs more.

  I sit in my pecan tree, trying to cast the guilt and the hate into the river. After an hour, I feel as raw and angry as I did when I climbed up here. Maybe there’s just too much even for a river to carry away. I give up, but I won’t go back to the house until I’m sure Griff is gone.

  Spinning around, I swing my legs to the other side of the limb and face the orchard. Squirrels are busy gathering a winter cache of nuts. Gran always leaves a few of the late ones on the orchard floor, an offering to the wildlife. But this year the animals aren’t even having to search. The floor is a carpet of stripped husks and untouched fruit.

  I could probably still save the harvest, at least some of it. I should.

  Looking out on the old trees, my heart aches even more. I love this orchard. But not enough to stay. Not anymore.

  When Dharma and Walden are old enough to care for themselves, I am gone.

  * * *

  For nearly three weeks, I keep thinking Griff will call. He does not. I am a link to the darkest parts of his life. He is the brightest part of mine.

  I tell the twins to hold their heads high, to ignore anyone who teases them, to live their lives honorably and bravely. And then I spend my school days with my head down, scurrying along the walls like a mouse, hiding behind the church across the street with my sack lunch. My hypocrisy
makes me sick.

  And then, on the twenty-first of November, while I’m obsessing over how horrible Thanksgiving will be, Margo drops a bombshell.

  She calls the three of us into the living room because she has an announcement—an unprecedented occurrence that sets off alarm bells. But even my panicked imaginings can’t compare to what she says. “I’ve made arrangements for you kids to go to live with my family in Michigan.”

  Walden sucks in a breath.

  Dharma asks, “The rich ones?”

  “You can’t! We . . . we need . . . we don’t even know—You said they’re—” I can’t believe she was functional enough through her Valium haze to arrange such a thing.

  “Stop! I can’t do this.” She rubs her forehead as if suddenly struck with a migraine from our protests.

  “Do what?” I shout as I jump to my feet. “You don’t do anything for us! What difference can it make to you if we’re here or there?”

  “You have no idea what it’s like—losing your father is killing me. He was the love of my life!” Her arms go dramatically wide and her eyes cast heavenward. Suddenly I see Dharma in twenty-five years.

  “Well, you sure had a funny way of showing it.”

  She moves so quickly I don’t see the slap coming before the sting on my face. “How dare you!”

  I won’t give her the satisfaction of clutching my cheek. “You always said how awful your family is. How can you send us there?”

  “Well, here is pretty awful right now, too, isn’t it? I have to get away from this place, the pain. Everyone will be better off—”

  “You’re leaving? Leaving, but not going to your family. You just want us to have to deal with their selfishness and greed—”

  “They aren’t that bad. And they can provide for you. Dharma can have all the lessons she needs to be an actress. You and Walden will have the best educations—”

  “You don’t believe in education!” If Maisie can survive in the world quitting school at sixteen, so can I.

  “Well I might not, but the rest of the world does. And—and it would please your father, make him proud.” She says it as if she stumbled on the best argument ever. “Besides, how am I going to feed you now that Dray is gone?” She chokes on his name, as if just saying it is too painful. “I need time to heal.”

  “So where are you going? And how are you going to afford to feed yourself?”

  “I’m going to stay with friends. I can’t heal in Michigan.”

  “But we can?”

  “What about Granny James?” Walden asks in a small and broken voice.

  “Yes, what about Gran?” I say. “Who will take care of her? Who will take care of the orchard?”

  “Your grandmother doesn’t need to be cared for. She’s not an invalid. And the orchard is going under, there’s no stopping it. This is an opportunity for you kids. It’ll just be for a while—this school year, maybe next. Then we’ll all settle somewhere together.” She doesn’t even try to make it sound convincing.

  I want to scream the truth: that she doesn’t care about us and never has. But for me that awareness came in stages, and I don’t want to hasten Walden’s and Dharma’s painful understanding. So I storm out of the house and down the road.

  Walking so fast that I’m huffing and puffing, I pass Judge Delmore’s. I don’t see Maisie anywhere. Moving through downtown, I’m barely aware of people and cars around me. By the time I walk into Gran’s kitchen, I’m sweating and red-faced.

  She sets down her teacup, alarm on her face. “Tallulah! What’s wrong? What’s happened now?”

  I tell her the whole horrible tale, pacing the kitchen and gulping the glass of water she pressed into my hand. When I stop, she’s sipping her tea as if nothing is amiss.

  “I spoke to Margo’s brother, Roger, and his wife, Carol, on the phone,” she says. “They seem like nice people.”

  “If they’re so nice, why didn’t they come to Daddy’s funeral?”

  “Their relationship with your mother is complicated . . . as you might imagine.”

  “Wait. When did you talk to them?”

  “Last week. When all of this got started.”

  “You knew last week and didn’t say anything to me?”

  “There was no reason to tell you until things were certain.”

  “Well, they’re not certain. I’m not going. If Margo has to go off and ‘heal,’ let her. We can stay with you.”

  Gran stands and comes before me, settling her hands on my shoulders. “Tallulah, my sweet child, I can’t possibly take on ten-year-old twins. I’m too old. You’ll all have every advantage with Margo’s family. Your aunt Carol is quite excited to have you all. She and your uncle are childless. You’ll go to a good college. Your father would want that for you.”

  “No fair using Dad’s imaginary wishes against me. Send the twins. Let me stay with you. This year and next and I’ll be graduated and out of your hair.” I can’t believe I’m arguing to stay at Lamoyne High. “You and I can run the orchard. We can’t let it go to ruin.”

  “We need some time to let things die down here—for people to stop talking. Maybe someday—”

  “So all your talk about the James family legacy is just that, empty words? You don’t really care.”

  “The legacy only matters if there’s someone here to live it. Griffin won’t ever come back. Honestly, the way things are now, I can’t wish that burden on you or the twins. Lamoyne is no place for any of you, not any longer.” Her shoulders slump and her voice is filled with defeat. For the first time, she looks old. “It’s time to go.”

  “What about you? Why don’t you and I go somewhere together and start over? Or you can move to Michigan, too. You’re all we have left.” Tears sting my eyes.

  She shakes her head. “This has been my home for my entire life. I won’t leave. Besides, I can’t afford to start over. And truthfully, I have no interest in doing so. But you have your whole life ahead of you. Take this opportunity and make the most of it. You’ll have security, a boundless future.”

  “You’re giving up on us.”

  “Never. I am doing quite the opposite. I’m sacrificing the joy of having you near me because I believe in you—your future.” She pulls me close and kisses me on the cheek. “We’ll write. You can come visit on school holidays. This isn’t the end, Tallulah. It’s your beginning.”

  * * *

  The next day, as the world goes mad after President Kennedy’s assassination, I do begin my new life. But not in Michigan.

  22

  August 1972

  New Orleans, Louisiana

  Shortly after Ross, Gran, and I arrived at his house, Amelia called. All she would say was that she’d gotten us approved for a visit today and to come right away. The tall, blue-eyed blonde greets us in the lobby of the Orleans Parrish jail. The family resemblance between her and Ross is significant. She’s wearing a black skirt suit and pearls. She looks way too Southern-girl sweet to be the barracuda Ross claims.

  After Ross introduces us, she gets right to the point. “We have a serious problem. Walden has refused counsel—mine or anyone else’s. I’m afraid he’ll put up no defense at all.”

  “What does that mean?” Gran asks.

  “Unless he changes his mind, I can’t do anything to help him. Hopefully, you two will be able to get him to see reason.”

  “Why doesn’t he want to put up a defense?” I ask as we all head toward the door that’ll lead us to my little brother.

  “He’s very detached. He’s refusing to participate in a court that has no authority over him or his brothers.”

  “Isn’t sitting in jail enough proof that the courts do have authority over them?” I ask.

  “I’m not sure logic has anything to do with it,” Amelia’s eyes are troubled. “You’ll see.”

  We leave Ross in the lobby and follow Amelia and a deputy down a gray hallway with harsh fluorescent lighting to an equally gray room with the same awful lighting, a battered
metal table, and four chairs. We sit and wait.

  Gran looks completely out of place in this visitation room at the jail, an orchid in a field of dandelions. If she’s uncomfortable, she’s not showing any sign.

  We both jump to our feet when the solid metal door opens. There’s a rushing in my ears as Walden is led in wearing a striped jumpsuit and handcuffs. His hair is long and tangled. He’s grown tall but is whippet thin, his face hard angles and jutting bones.

  Gran sucks in a shocked breath, confirming his appearance isn’t what it was the last time she saw him, either. Instinctively, I take her cold, fragile hand.

  They don’t take off his handcuffs, and we’ve been instructed not to touch him. My body is literally aching with the need to wrap him in my arms.

  His eyes are skittish, passing quickly over Gran, then me, but not lingering on either one of us. I’m not even sure he recognizes me.

  The deputy makes Walden sit in a chair across the table from us. “You have ten minutes.” He nods to where Amelia is sitting in a row of chairs behind us.

  Ten minutes won’t give us time to crack the shell, let alone find the boy we know underneath. “It’s me, Walden. Tallulah.”

  His gaze lifts to my face briefly before sliding away. “Neither of you should have come.” His voice is deep and yet so soft-spoken I have to strain to hear. It’s full of disdain.

  “We had to come,” Gran says.

  She starts to reach across the table.

  The deputy says, “No touching.”

  Her hand returns to her lap as quickly as if it had been slapped by a ruler.

  I eye the harsh tension in his mouth and lead with contrition. “Walden, I owe you an apology.” My throat swells and I have to force the words. “I never should have left you and Dharma. If I’d gone with you to Michigan, things would have been different.”

  He keeps his chin tucked and looks at me from beneath his fair brows. “What makes you think I want different?” His voice is so cold that it strikes like a fist.