* * *
Ross is in the kitchen making a fruit-and-cheese plate when I come downstairs after a long hot shower in which I schemed on how I’m going to get Tommy to give up Griff’s number.
“I thought we needed appetizers.” A bottle of wine is open and the small television on the kitchen counter is tuned to Nightly News. I imagine he spends many evenings like this, making a solo meal with the national news for company, just as I do—with the exception that I have my television tuned to the nonupsetting Beat the Clock.
“When I get back to Lamoyne,” I say, “I’m going to get that number from Tommy, then I’m going to track down my brother.”
“Are you sure you want to do that? Griff said he’d be in touch, right? If he can’t come now, maybe he’s right about waiting to tell Lavada.”
“You’re taking his side?”
“I didn’t know there were sides.”
“Sorry. I’m just so frustrated.”
“It is frustrating when a person you care about won’t be open with you—won’t let you know where they are.”
I eye him. “Point taken.”
I pick up a grape and roll it between my fingers, thinking of my brothers, both alone by choice, as I have been. It suddenly seems foolish and wasteful. A sense of control can foster the soul only so long. I feel it now, the vacuum of my inner self, where nothing stirs, so nothing changes.
Gran says family traditions are what give meaning to life. But that’s not it. The family itself, if we accept it for what it is and not condemn it for what it is not, can be the fiber that weaves a rope that pulls us out of ourselves, and into a world where we’re willing to take an emotional risk.
As I’m musing, a cacophony of noise and movement draw my gaze to the television. It’s a mob. I hear Walden’s name. Ross, Gran, and I fill the screen, trying to get out of the Orleans Parish courthouse. Gran holding her head high. Me looking like a terrified child.
Once the horrendous footage is over, the anchor John Chancellor comes back on and says. “According to our sources, this is his grandmother, Lavada, and his sister, Tallulah, along with prominent New Orleans psychiatrist, Dr. Ross Saenger. They had no comment on his guilty plea. The other two suspects will be arraigned tomorrow. Speculation is that they, too, will plead guilty. But what of the mysterious Westley Smythe? No one has been able to reach him for comment. The question remains, are the Scholars of Humanity a benevolent organization, a fraternity, or a cult?”
The grape explodes between my finger and thumb. “Oh my God. How did they get our names?”
Ross grabs a towel and wipes up the pulverized grape. “I should have shut it off. But this could be good, the media is calling out Smythe.”
“There is nothing good about this.” My body is hot, my hands shaking. My boss, Mr. Capstone, never misses Nightly News.
“I need to make a phone call.” I head for the library, trying to decide what I can say that will make a difference. Mr. Capstone’s most stringent rule is to keep everything that touches the foundation above reproach.
I call him. Any hope of his not having seen the broadcast is destroyed by the chilly tone of his voice.
“Mr. Capstone, I want to apologize for not explaining the situation before I left. I wasn’t sure there was validity to the charge at that time.”
“And you didn’t think to call me between then and now? Bruce has already called in an outrage.”
Bruce Buckman, of the Buckman family. “I’m sorry, sir. I’ve been estranged from my family for years. I had no idea—”
“You know my hands are tied. Keith has already called and offered to take over your responsibilities, so nothing will be disrupted.”
That was fast. Sharks always are.
Mr. Capstone goes on, “The announcement to the press is going out tonight. You can collect your personal belongings at the security desk whenever you return.”
I hang up the phone, sick at heart. I love that job. It’s all I have.
And whose fault is that?
31
Ross gave me the space I needed last evening after my conversation with Mr. Capstone. Even this morning he asked no questions, only extracted a promise that I would call him to let him know when Gran and I arrive safely in Lamoyne. I suppose to most people someone expressing concern over their safe arrival wouldn’t be extraordinary. But to me, it’s as foreign as living underwater.
I missed his reassuring strength the second I drove away. Seeing him again, feeling that sense of connection, has made me reassess the way I’ve chosen to live. Keeping people at a distance has a cost, one I’m not sure I want to continue to pay.
Coming here has awakened the girl I buried when I left Mississippi. And I miss her, even her vulnerability.
As I drive north, I glance over at Gran. All her efforts to hide the truth, bury the imperfections, preserve the facade, have done nothing but leave her standing with only her pride for company.
I dig deep for the resolve to do as Mr. Stokes urged, unburden Gran of the secrets she’s carrying. She’ll no doubt resist, but I have to try.
What if, back in my childhood, we’d talked about the ugly parts of our lives, lashed ourselves together with the rope of family, instead of floundering around in our individual storms, allowing those ropes to twist into nooses and shackles? The what-ifs behind me are a mountain I can’t unbuild. All I can do is examine myself openly, move forward. I suppose that’s been my problem, I’ve been running away from and not toward for nine years.
When we get to Lamoyne, we stop at the grocery store. The stares and whispers are back with the force of my childhood. I pity Gran as she moves with her cart, back straight, pretending she doesn’t notice. I wonder if there was any time during the past nine years when talk of our family died down enough that she was relieved of the burden.
Once at Hawthorn House, Gran unpacks while I throw together a couple of salads. Then we sit at her kitchen table, talking about our times at the orchard, Mr. Stokes and Maisie, happy topics. She needs some breathing room before I bring up the things in her locked bureau drawer.
After we’ve eaten, she looks tired.
“Gran, why don’t you take a nap while I clean up?”
“I wouldn’t mind a few minutes to rest my eyes. I think I’ll rest in the chaise on the front porch.”
“Good idea. I’ll join you with some sweet tea in a while.”
Once the kitchen is set in order, I creep like a thief up to her bedroom. Perhaps the gentlest way to open this door is with the James family album.
After I take it from the night stand, I eye the drawer of secrets. I retrieve the key and open it to look through the photographs of Uncle George again. I pull the locket from her jewelry box and open it, thinking of the young girl Gran had been when it was given to her. Had she been in love? Had George declared himself, then left her?
As I swipe the depth of the drawer to draw out all the photographs, my finger catches a folded paper in the back. It’s slightly yellowed, but not old and brittle like the photographs. Unfolding it, I see the Wickham College letterhead with Dad’s name under the embossed college logo. There’s a large dark stain on the lower right corner.
It’s that stain that gives me chills. I saw it the night of the bonfire and recall the panic on Gran’s face when she read it. I always assumed it was a note that tied Dad to Elizabeth Taylor (I’m ashamed I never remember that poor girl’s real name). But I was wrong. It was from Dad to Gran.
The writing is in pencil, heavy, dark and smeared. The letters, uneven, angular and sharp-edged, frantic.
I know why he did it. I heard you. George. Dad.
You could have stopped him.
I can’t stand the whirlwind in my head. The chaos in my soul
Make it stop Stop Stop Stop St——————
I know why he did it I know why he did it I know why I know I know
How he must have been suffering when he wrote this. I stumble-sit on the bed. We didn’t help hi
m. We just shuffled him out of sight.
Gran had to know how desperate he was after reading this. My fingers tighten on the paper. All of the forgiveness I’ve been trying to foster evaporates on a single breath. She knew. And did nothing to ensure he wasn’t going to hurt himself.
I sit staring into space for a few minutes, angry at both of us for failing him. Then I look at the note again. References to both George and Granddad. George was long gone by the time Dad was born. Could he have come back? Was there trouble between the brothers?
I won’t let her continue to ignore this like she’s ignored every other unpleasant thing in our lives.
I force myself to calm down, organize my thoughts. I have to remember all she has lost. I cannot go out there and slap her in the face with my discoveries.
Finally, I walk out on the front porch, without bothering to bring the album, the locket, or the discoveries from the drawer. Gran is sitting in the swing, staring into the distance.
I sit next to her, and we rock silently for a few minutes. Then I say, “I’ve been thinking a lot about the James family.”
“That makes sense in our current circumstances, I suppose.”
“Is it true that Dad and Uncle George were alike?”
“What do you mean?”
“Ross said he thinks Dad had a mental illness. Manic-depressive disorder.”
“Your father was a brilliant, creative man. He was not mentally ill.”
“Gran, when you hear the symptoms, you might see it differently. There’s no shame in it. It’s not a character flaw; it’s a disease.”
“Drayton could have his moods, but married to that woman, who could blame him?”
I see myself sitting in her skin not that long ago, blaming everything about Dad on Margo. It’s hard not to, she earned her position as scapegoat. But she was not the sole cause of his destruction. I force myself to speak without judgment, hoping I can lead Gran to acceptance by example.
Gran keeps her gaze fixed on the gnarled oak in the yard as I explain the symptoms as I saw them in Dad. But her hands, restless in her lap, show her agitation.
“Don’t you think it’s a possibility?” I ask. “Remember his office at the end, his paranoia, the notes, his promiscuity. What if he was sleeping with that student who died?”
“Really, Tallulah! How can you even speak of such things?”
“Because they’re true. Not facing them is poisoning all of us.”
Her lips tighten. “Margo was the poison. Drayton would have been fine if he hadn’t—”
“Gran! I know you want to believe that. For years, I did, too. But can you honestly say he showed none of his moodiness before they were together?”
I glance at her hands. The beds of her fingernails bloom crimson as she clenches them. I reach over and put my hand over hers. “It’s all right, Gran. There’s no one here but you and me. We loved Dad, nothing will ever change that.”
She refuses to look at me. Although she blinks, her tears stay dammed in her eyes.
I give her a minute before I press on. “I ask about Uncle George because Ross said there can be a familial aspect to the disease. You said George wasn’t well suited to running the orchard or being a professor. I believe you said he was too scattered. Did any of the symptoms Ross described fit him, too?”
“What good does talking about George do now?”
“If we can face the truth, we can accept it. If we accept it, we can let it go. Ignoring it has only made things worse.”
“Talking about these things only inflames! I don’t want to discuss George, or your father. Please stop.”
Even in her profile, I can read her pain. I have to ask myself if I’m really doing this for her, or because I want answers to my own questions?
Mr. Stokes knows Gran better than anyone on this earth. His friendship has been a mainstay her entire life. I know he wants the best for her. He’s carried her secrets with love and honor for years. And he thinks it’s vital for her to let them go.
Oh, Mr. Stokes, I hope you’re right. Because this feels cruel.
“I know things were different when you grew up. You said Great-Grandmother James wasn’t tolerant of imperfections and that’s why George left. But ignoring and hiding things doesn’t fix them. It makes them worse.”
She starts crying, real crying.
I feel horrible. “When I was looking for your pearls the other day, I unlocked the center dresser drawer in your bedroom.”
Her body goes rigid. “You had no right.”
“I don’t suppose I did. But I’m not sorry. I found the locket. George was his middle name, wasn’t it?”
She nods, her eyes taking on a faraway look and a noticeable tremble takes over her chin.
“You cut George out of the album, not Great-Grandmother James.”
“This is none of your business.” There’s more pain than reprimand in her voice.
“It might not be, if it wasn’t affecting everyone I love. Including you. You were in love with George.”
Her eyes close, forcing fresh tears from their corners. “I was.”
“Did you ever look for him, after he left?”
She’s quiet for so long, I don’t think she’s going to answer. Then she whispers. “He never left.”
My skin flushes with hot prickles. “What happened to him?”
“You’ll never understand.”
“Not if I’m not allowed to try.”
She’s quiet for a time. I simply wait.
“George wasn’t like Drayton,” she says in a small voice. “I never saw George dark and withdrawn. He was sparkling light and energy, the life of the party. Everybody loved him—until those last months when he went too far.”
She takes a deep, shuddering breath and continues to stare into the yard.
“You can tell me,” I say softly.
She shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter now. Leave it lie.”
“I honestly would, if I didn’t see the pain keeping it inside is causing you. It’s time for you to stop standing alone. So we can help Walden. So we can help Griff. So we can help each other.”
Again, her eyes close. When she opens them, she turns away.
Finally, I use Mr. Stokes’s words. “Why do you keep painting a storefront that has no goods to sell? There’s no need anymore. The shelves have been stripped bare.”
Her head whips around. Her eyes are huge, her mouth open. After a second she says, “Why are you asking me, if he’s already told you?” The words come from between gritted teeth. “He promised.”
“He didn’t tell me anything except to ask you that question.”
Her hand covers her trembling mouth. “Why are you doing this to me?”
I slide closer and put an arm around her. We sit like that for a minute before I say, “Mr. Stokes is right. There’s no one left to protect in Lamoyne. It’s time to cut that secret out like the cancer it is.”
After a choked sob, she says, “Elliot was just trying to calm him down. If he’d left George alone like I wanted, everything would have been all right.”
Her shoulders quake.
I suddenly wish I hadn’t started this conversation out here. We should be inside where the security of family heirlooms surrounds her. And then I think, maybe this is the right place. Out in the open, where the grasp of the past isn’t quite so strong.
“It’s okay, Gran. There’s no one left for it to hurt.”
“I need some time. Please.”
I’m reluctant to leave her alone. Yet I know from experience there are some things you have to face alone before you can face recounting them to others.
“I’ll go in and get us some sweet tea and be back in a few minutes.”
Her whispered thank-you leaves a mark on my heart.
* * *
She dabs her eyes with the tissue I bring before she accepts the glass of tea. She holds it in her hand until the sweat from it dampens her skirt.
Finally, she’s ready to
talk. “Your Great-Uncle George proposed to me on my eighteenth birthday—completely out of the blue. With the locket, not a ring. I told him I needed to think it over because I knew my daddy would have a fit. George couldn’t hold a job outside the orchard—and even that he did infrequently and haphazardly. But worse, he hadn’t asked Daddy for my hand. And we’d only been courting for a couple of months.” She tilts her head slightly, as if just struck by a thought. “I wonder if he would have asked me at all, had he not been so . . . outside himself.”
“He would have, Gran. I know he would. Those words on the locket. He loved you.”
She gives me a shadow of a smile and pats my hand. “Perhaps.” After a pause, she says, “When I looked back on it, his behavior had been escalating for weeks. Maybe even the entire time we were seeing each other.” Her expression darkens. “Rumors began surfacing in late May. Just a few at first, and people were careful to keep them away from me. But then the dam burst. He was careening out of control and so was the gossip. He bought on credit all over town—things he didn’t need and certainly couldn’t afford, trading on his family name, which, at the time, was highly respected.
“He bought sixteen straw boaters. All the dry goods store had. When I asked him why, he laughed and said you never knew when one might blow off your head. It seemed funny and cavalier at the time, so refreshing after living with my straitlaced parents.” She pauses. “I learned the hard way there are reasons for rules, for structure. Without them, a person can ricochet out of control.”
I begin to see her rigid emphasis on social protocol in a different light.
“The whole town was talking by my birthday,” she says softly. Then she straightens her back. “His mother was trying to keep him on the farm, away from trouble and the eyes of the gossips. She’d arranged a Saturday family picnic as a birthday celebration for me. We were halfway through the meal when George got it in his head that the butcher was cheating them. He was going to town to put an end to it. He wanted my car keys, but I wouldn’t give them to him. His mother had already hidden the keys to their car and the farm truck.
“We thought he’d just gone to the orchard barn, that’s where he hid his bootleg. But when I went after him, he wasn’t there. Your great-grandmother sent Elliot after his brother. Because I might have more luck in getting him to come back, I drove. We caught up with George on the bridge between the orchard and town.” She dabs her eyes and releases a long breath. “He resisted when Elliot tried to get him in the car. I jumped out and said to let him go. The town was already full of rumors about him, what was one more?
The Myth of Perpetual Summer Page 31
