Granny’s words echo in my head. Your momma and daddy are dangerously obsessive. Sometimes with love, sometimes loathing, but always full to the brim with each other. It’s unhealthy. No, it’s sick.
That’s what I feel. Sick. My trembling hand goes to my mouth.
I’ve never been so afraid of myself.
Cody looks perplexed, his head slightly to the side.
I turn away and run up three flights of stairs, then slam the door safely between me and him.
Now I have to figure out a way to banish him from my mind.
* * *
For the next week, I feel as if I’m mourning, a papery shell of the person I should be. The pain of losing Cody has reopened the door to all things lost to me. Maybe it’s because I’m finally still enough for the sadness to catch up with me. The hole Dad left in my life seems even greater than it did after he first died. My yearning for Griff more intense.
When Bobbi asked me about it, I was less than nice. I feel too raw to talk. Griff and I never talked to each other about the insanity in our house and what it did to our insides. I suppose once you survive something horrible, you’re not inclined to talk it to death afterward. Maisie is the only person who’s seen my deepest wounds. So I add her to my litany of sorrow.
One evening when I’m feeling particularly low, I call information to get the number for Judge Delmore’s house. Maisie’s family doesn’t have a phone, plus, the judge doesn’t have a party line, so no one can listen in and spread our words all over town.
The next day I call.
“Judge Delmore’s residence.”
The comfort that surges through me at the sound of Maisie’s voice astonishes me.
“Maisie, it’s me. Can you talk?”
“Tallulah Mae! Sweet Jesus, where are you? You all right? I thought you might be dead, too.” She’s talking so fast her words trip over one another.
“Dead, too!” My flesh crawls with alarm. “Who else is dead?”
“Nobody new. But your Daddy’s dyin’ and all that went around it is still on the lips of every gossip in town. It’s shameful. Let the man rest in peace. You should be glad you’re gone. But shame on you for not tellin’ me you were leaving.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, surprising myself with the truth of it. “I’m in California. LA. I have a job and a nice place to live. I’m starting over.”
“Seventeen is mighty young to need a clean slate, but in your case, I say it’s the right thing. Forget Lamoyne.”
My recent birthday didn’t even cross my mind. Maybe I did leave everything about the old me behind. “I miss you.”
“I miss you, too. But that don’t change anything. Your brother took his way out. It’s good you found yours. You sure you’re okay?”
“Yes. Well, no. Um, I don’t know. Mostly I am. It’s just there’s a boy—”
Her whoop nearly breaks my eardrum and confirms that she’s alone in the Delmore house. “Hallelujah, Jesus! I’m so happy you have someone like I have my Marlon. Just so you know, when he’s done with college, we’re gettin’ married.”
“Oh, Maisie, congratulations! I’m happy for you. But it’s not like that for me. I sent Cody away.”
“He a no-good?”
“No, he’s . . . he’s wonderful. He’s kind and gentle and writes music.”
“Drunkard?”
“No.
“Womanizer?”
“I don’t think so.”
“So why’d you send him away?”
“Because I . . . I . . . he makes me feel wild inside.”
“He supposed to!”
“No. I mean, in a bad way. Like obsessive and reckless. Like—”
“You nothin’ like them! You’re just feelin’ what new love feels like.”
“No. No. It’s more. It’s bad.”
“You can’t have known this boy long. Give it some time and see. You can always change your mind.”
“That’s just it! If I only know him a little and think about him all the time, what’s it going to be like after . . . after I love him?”
“Tallulah, you’ve never been like your momma, and you never will be. Enjoy that boy—” Her words cut off, then she whispers, “Missus Queen Bee’s home. I gotta go. I’m glad you’re safe.”
“Maisie!”
“What?”
“Don’t tell anyone where I am.”
“You forget we’re blood sisters?” She hangs up.
I wander out to the courtyard and sit in the shade. I start to feel sad for a different reason. What if Maisie’s right? What if I made a horrible mistake? It isn’t as if I can just write Cody a letter or call him on the phone. He. Is. Gone.
I bury my face in my hands and sob for the loss of something that my fear and my foolishness killed before it had a chance to bloom.
* * *
Three weeks later, a postcard arrives. The Golden Gate Bridge.
Tallulah,
The road is long. The music strong.
The mysteries of the universe great.
Cody
What the hell? Could he be more ambiguous?
I wish he hadn’t sent it at all.
* * *
I arrive home from work early with a throbbing headache, which I’m pretty sure was caused by what I’ve come to think of as my coworker Loretta’s neurosis du jour.
Bobbi looks startled when I walk in. “You’re home!”
I drop my purse on the floor and flop down on my bed, kicking off my heels as soon as I land. “Killer headache. You look like you’re heading out.”
“Um, yeah.” She busies herself putting on earrings. “I’ll leave so you can rest.”
“Where’re you going?”
She hesitates. “I have a date.”
“Anyone I know?”
She sighs and sits down on her bed. “I didn’t want to tell you, but I’m dating Greg.”
“Huntington Beach Greg?”
“Yeah. He works up this way, a sound guy for Warner Brothers.”
“How long have you been dating?”
“Over a month.” Her cheeks pinken, from the shame of secrecy or the thought of Greg, I can’t tell.
“A month? How did I not know?”
“You’ve been mooning over Cody—”
“I have not been mooning!” A lie.
“Okay, okay.” She raises her hands. “You’ve been a little down since he left. I didn’t want to rub your nose in the fact that I’m dating Greg.”
“Why should I care?” I think I sound detached, convincing. Truth be, the very thought of Greg makes me miss Cody more. Proof that I’m unnaturally vulnerable when it comes to him.
“Tallulah. I’ve never seen you like this over anyone you’ve gone out with.”
As if there have been scores. She’s right, though. I’ve never had someone turn me inside out like this, not even when I was fourteen and crushing on Ross. “You don’t need to hide your dates from me, for God’s sake.” I’m ashamed of how snippy I sound.
“Why don’t you come with us tonight? We’re going to a cocktail party for some studio people. It’ll be fun. Maybe you’ll even meet some movie stars.”
I throw my arm over my eyes. “This headache is making me see my own stars.”
“Okay, then, don’t try to make yourself feel better. Lie there on your fainting couch and pine over a guy you saw twice.”
I pick up a book from the nightstand and throw it. It sails past her and crashes into the things on top of the chest, knocking her lighted makeup mirror onto the floor. I roll over, turning my back before I see if it’s broken.
Inside I’m a mass of quivering revulsion. Maisie was wrong. Cody has turned me into Margo.
26
August 1964
Ever since the cat climbed out of the bag that Bobbi’s dating Greg, I hardly see her. Some nights she doesn’t even come home. I’ve seen Greg just enough to get a sense that he doesn’t like sharing her with anybody. So it’s a happy surprise
when I get home from work and find her in our room leafing through a magazine.
“Hey there,” I say. “How about a movie tonight? Marnie is playing.”
“I promised Greg I’d see it with him.”
“Okay, how about A Shot in the Dark? After today, I could stand a good Inspector Clouseau laugh.”
“He wants to see that one, too.”
I try again, “Maybe we can forgo the dining room and go out for Chinese?” Until I came to LA, my only experience with foreign food was Chef Boyardee spaghetti from a box.
“I’m low on cash.”
That’s a first. “Okay. We stay in. We can get a couple of girls and play cards?”
“Sure. Unless Greg calls.”
She stays quiet as I change out of my conservative gray dress and into a turquoise-and-yellow giant-flowered tunic top and pants. New to my wardrobe and very mod.
“Any new audition prospects?” I finally ask.
She shrugs. “A couple of commercials. But Greg’s keeping an ear to the ground over at Warner.”
“That’s nice of him.”
She lowers her magazine and looks at me for the first time since I walked in. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means he’s being nice by keeping an eye out for roles for you. What else?”
“You sounded annoyed that he’s helping me.”
“I’m not annoyed he’s helping you. But every statement you’ve made since I got home is centered around what Greg wants.”
“Oh boy. Greg said this would happen.”
“What?”
“You’re jealous.”
“Jealous? Of your boyfriend?”
“It’s just that you have so few friends and you’ve counted on me so much. With Cody taking off and leaving you . . . it’s natural for you to feel abandoned.”
“Cody’s been gone for four months. And he did not ‘leave’ me. We never even dated, for God’s sake. And, for your information, I walked away from him.” Technically true, and a moot point to boot. “I’m not jealous of Greg. I’m worried about you! You’ve changed.”
She throws her magazine on the bed. “What are you talking about?”
“You can’t seem to do anything without Greg’s permission, or blessing, or whatever it is you get from him. And”—I decide to jump in with both feet and address the most concerning issue—“the drugs. You always stayed away from them. But now you’re obviously . . . not.” She came home so high on acid one night she was picking pink fairies out of the air.
“What’s wrong with expanding your mind a little? It’s no big deal.”
“Maybe it’s not a big deal, but it’s a big change from your ‘drugs just make you stupid’ and ‘I can’t risk my career.’ ”
“All said from a place of naïveté.” She waves a dismissive hand. “Before I discovered everybody around movies is using drugs. It fuels creativity. It has nothing to do with Greg.”
“Okay. Okay. I don’t want to fight. I’m just concerned because I care about you and it seems you’re letting him control you.”
She shakes her head. “Greg said you’d say that, too.”
I grab my purse and leave the room before I say things I’ll regret.
In walking off my anger, I find myself in front of the El Capitan. While I’m waiting for A Shot in the Dark to start, I calm down enough to ask myself, am I jealous? Do I count on Bobbi too much?
All of my introspection ruins the movie and I’m sorry I wasted my dollar.
I leave the theater and head back to the Studio Club to apologize to Bobbi. It isn’t my place to tell her what she should or shouldn’t do, any more than it’s Greg’s. She seems happy. That’s all that should matter.
But when I get back to our room, Bobbi isn’t there. Most of her stuff isn’t, either. There’s a folded note taped on the mirror with my name on it.
Greg asked me to move in with him last week and I’ve decided now is as good a time as any. I’ll be by to pack up the rest of my things this weekend. I’ve given notice to the Studio Club.
Bobbi
I crawl into bed feeling almost as alone as I did when I first set foot in California. I was deluded for a time, but now I see, no matter how nice they seem, people are the same everywhere.
* * *
My neck is in knots when I step out into the mid-September night. Loretta has turned into a most tedious coworker, full of complaints and gossip. It’s becoming a full-time effort to avoid being drawn into the petty conflicts between different cliques of clerks inside these walls. That, along with the strict rules of etiquette and behavior required at I. Magnin are beginning to mirror life in Lamoyne.
At least they don’t roll up the sidewalks here at 6:00 p.m. When I get off at seven, the street is busy with diners and moviegoers, even though it’s a weeknight. The sight of people laughing together makes me feel starkly alone as I move toward the bus, where I will sit silent among strangers. Daytime-gathered heat is still radiating from the sidewalk. Although the mercury has nudged over ninety most days the past few weeks, it isn’t anything like the sticky, cloying heat of home that drains energy and bogs the mind.
I usually keep everything Mississippi and all its chaos locked in a dark, windowless cellar. But as I stare out the bus window, I wonder if there was blackberry picking this year or if the birds finally got the whole crop. Is Gran lonely without any of us around? Quickly, I kick that cellar door closed before too much crawls out.
When I arrive at the Studio Club, I’m dreaming of getting out of my stockings and into a pair of shorts. Shorts and a nice bottle of Coke. I’ve missed dinner in the dining room, but I’m too tired to eat anyway.
Entering the lobby, I hear the piano in the big common room. Not a classical piece or show tune, as is the norm, but something sweet and haunting and unfamiliar. I veer away from the stairs. The lights are low in the room. When I see who’s seated at the baby grand, my heart falls to my feet.
The notes die in the air as Cody’s eyes meet mine. He stands in a relaxed, unhurried way that makes me touch my lips at the memory of the way he kissed me. My ears grow warm thinking of how I fled. How I rejected him without the courtesy of words.
“I told you I’d come back.” He steps away from the piano and walks toward me.
“It’s been five months. I thought maybe you were dead.” Which I decide sounds much less petulant than grousing about no phone calls and just a single, cryptic postcard.
“You didn’t get engaged or anything, did you?”
He’s right in front of me now, causing my heart to thunder and my breath to halt. I’m torn between throwing myself in his arms and running off like a frightened deer. I will myself into stillness. “The proposals have been legion, but I haven’t accepted any yet.”
With a crooked smile, he cups my face and leans close. “I want to kiss you, but I’m worried you’ll bolt again.”
“I suppose you’ll have to take that chance sooner or later.” As will I.
When his lips touch mine, I swear I can hear music, his music, those beautiful chords he just played. Need wells up in me, dangerous, frightening.
You’ve never been like your momma and you never will be. Oh, Maisie, I hope you’re right.
Just to prove it to myself, I give myself over to the kiss and keep my hands on his waist, softly touching.
I will never grasp for love again.
* * *
Cody and I sit holding hands in the wee-hour quiet of the Studio Club courtyard. The night air is warm and comforting. We’ve talked the evening away, him sharing stories of his tour and me talking of work and how Bobbi and I fell out.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t be here for you,” he says.
“You make it sound like something kept you away.”
“It did. While I was at Berkeley at the end of May, I got involved with CORE.”
“Oh my God, you went?” That acronym needed no explanation after the national news of the missing civil rights workers
last summer. A wave of cold fear washes over me, even though the danger to Cody has long passed.
When the three voter registration workers disappeared in Mississippi, I had no doubt those boys were dead in a swamp. Or at the bottom of an old well. Or burned to ash. But I kept my mouth shut and avoided talking about it. Which made for some uncomfortable moments. It was a lot like being back home—conversations fell quiet when I walked into a room, people cast sideways looks and whispered after I passed. As if everyone with a Southern accent was a murdering bigot.
“I did. And I’d do it again,” he says. “They prepared us for harassment—trained us how to handle it. But until I got there—” He shakes his head. “I had no idea things could be like that in this country.”
I pull my hand from his, trying not to feel tainted by association, but his words make me defensive.
He looks directly into my eyes. “All the time I was there, knowing that was your home, I wondered—”
“If I’m a racist, too?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve seen how kind you are, how sensitive to anyone in need.”
I’m quiet for a moment, recalling the argument Gran and Dad had years ago. “I’m not defending what’s going on there, but like everywhere else, some people are small-minded and terrified of change. They’ve been taught, cradle to grave for generations, that life is a certain way. For someone to come and tell them that they and all their ancestors are wrong-minded is hard to swallow. The ones who make us all look bad”—people like Grayson Collie—“don’t want to lose their easy targets.”
“Is that why you left after your father died?”
“There are a lot of reasons I left. Civil rights and the Klan never entered into it.”
“I see.” He sounds disappointed.
“No, you don’t. When my best friend and I got old enough, our friendship just couldn’t continue because she’s Negro and I’m white. So the only racial motivation I had was my own personal deprivation, not anyone else’s.” I lift a shoulder. “It sounds selfish.”
“It sounds complicated.” He takes my hand again. “We’ve spent so little time together, I know so little about your life, but I feel so, so—connected to you.”
“You’ve probably filled in the blanks with things that make you think I’m a better person than I actually am.” Just like I’ve probably done with you. “Maybe we should just leave it at that.” The idea of stopping this before it goes further is both painful and a relief. Crazy and disparate emotions. A combination that leads to nothing but volatility and pain.
The Myth of Perpetual Summer Page 27
