The Myth of Perpetual Summer

by Susan Crandall

  “I had another surgery for the burns. Skin graft.”

  “I mean to make you need a skin graft in the first place.”

  “My medevac got shot down in Vietnam. Life’s been a string of surgeries since then.”

  “Oh. I’m so sorry.” Of all the things I imagined Griff doing these past years, drafted and slogging through rice paddies in Vietnam wasn’t one of them. Just more denial, I suppose. “And aren’t they supposed to avoid shooting down medevacs?”

  His half chuckle is laced with anger. “They treated that red cross like a target. Can’t recall one evacuation from a hot zone without bullets hitting the Huey.” Then he squeezes my hand. “I’ll be okay. It’s just going to take some time.”

  “Are you alone? I mean, do you have a wife or anything? Is she here with you?”

  “No wife. You married?” He rubs his right hand across his forehead. “It seems really weird, asking that.”

  “Nope. I’m as alone as a person can possibly be. I mean, up until all my recent family reunions in hospital rooms.”

  “Is Gran really doing okay?” Then his eyes narrow. “You didn’t tell her I was here, did you?”

  “She’s doing great.” I almost tell him about her admission but decide this isn’t the time or place. “I told her I had to go back to work for a couple of days.”

  He asks about my life in San Francisco and I sketch it out, which only highlights what Maisie said, a job is not a life.

  “Where’s home for you?” I ask.

  “I don’t have one. Not at the moment, anyhow. I’ve been in one hospital or another pretty steadily since I got back to the States.”

  “I protested the war . . . the draft. I wish it could have saved you.”

  “Lulie, haven’t you learned that it’s not your responsibility to save anyone but yourself? And I wasn’t drafted. I volunteered. I was a medevac pilot from early ’66 until eight months ago.”

  “Dear God, why would you volunteer?”

  “Why wouldn’t I? Guys with real lives—wives and kids—were being yanked into the army left and right. Truthfully, at that point I didn’t see a future I wanted to live. I—I was still afraid I’d turn into Dad or George.”

  At least he said he was afraid of being like them, so at least that particular horror must not have visited him.

  “I didn’t know you knew about George.”

  “Everybody in Lamoyne knew about George—and Dad. And of course, Margo. The holy trinity of Lamoyne social scorn.”

  “I never thought it bothered you like it did me. You always had friends. You were always out with people.”

  “Yeah, well, for me the best defense was just what Gran prescribed. Don’t try to fix it. Don’t address it. Ignore it. I mean, what can a kid do about any of it? And if I’d let you know it bothered me, it would only have made you feel worse. I was trying to show you how to plow through until we could get the hell out of Lamoyne.”

  With that, I’m crying, after I promised myself that no matter what I found behind this door I wouldn’t. “Why didn’t we talk about this back then?”

  “Honestly, I don’t want to talk about it now. After Dad, Lena, Margo, Vietnam, I’m only looking forward.”

  “But I want to know everything that’s happened to you.”

  “I have an ammo box full of letters I wrote to you. I’ll send them to you in California when I get out.”

  “I may not be in California. I’m looking for a new job.”

  “Just make sure you let me know where you are.”

  “Always, from now on. Where will you be?”

  “I haven’t decided. I have rehab and then I have to get discharged. Could be some time.”

  What kind of work will he be able to do? How will he manage?

  “I’ve been thinking,” I say. “Gran said the four of us still own the farm. It’s pretty much gone to ruin, but we can sell it. I mean, none of us wants to go back there, and the money can help you get set up somewhere, give you some breathing room.”

  He’s quiet for a moment. “I’m not sure I’m ready to do that yet.” Then his voice brightens. “Besides, weren’t you the one who was all about honoring the James family legacy?”

  “As it turns out, I don’t want to look backward, either. Do you really think there’s a chance you’ll go back there?”

  “Probably not. But once it’s gone, it’s gone. I think we should spend some time considering—and I think we should discuss it with Gran. It was a big part of her life. It seems wrong to make the decision without her.”

  I wonder how she’ll feel about it. Will it be a release from a constant reminder? Or will she mourn its passing?

  “And speaking of Gran, I don’t want to see her until I’m out of here,” he says. “So you can’t tell her, or she’ll want to come.”

  “I know. Although if I did tell her, I could stay.”

  “Please don’t. I don’t feel much like conversation most of the time. We have the rest of our lives.”

  “Truth?” I’m swept up on soaring wings at the prospect.

  “Truth.”

  A nurse comes in and says, “I’m sorry, but I have to take Lieutenant James down for some tests now.”

  “Go home, Lulie. I promise I’ll call.”

  “But—”

  “If you go, I promise not to strangle Tommy.”

  I reach into my purse. “Swear it on your arrowhead.” I hold it out in the flat of my palm.

  I can tell the smile hurts his face. He puts a hand over the arrowhead. “I swear I’ll call—and I won’t kill Tommy.”

  I laugh through my tears. “I’ll go. But I’m not staying away. I’ll be back.”

  “Deal. But I say when.”

  The nurse is unlocking the wheels on his bed and attaching his IV bottle to it.

  “Still think you’re the boss of me?”

  “Always.”

  I wrap his fingers around the arrowhead and leave it in his palm. Then I give him a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll be here when you need me,” I whisper. “I promise.”

  * * *

  Once back at Hawthorn House with Gran, it’s almost impossible not to tell her about Griff. But I promised, and I don’t make promises I don’t keep. Besides, she seems to finally have some solid footing. We’ve not spoken of George again, but there’s a new lightness in her bearing that makes me hope she’s finally healing.

  I can’t bring myself to book a flight to San Francisco. I’m not doing Walden any good here, but somehow it feels like desertion if I leave. I’ve written him a pleading letter every day. I fear there aren’t enough days between now and the sentencing to do any good. I wonder if a lifetime of days would be enough.

  I saw on the news that Wesley Smythe and his followers abandoned their Louisiana compound. The film of the deserted clotheslines and crude huts that made most hunting shacks look like architectural wonders was chilling. The whole thing was made more so by the alligator dragging its tail around the place. It sickens me to think my brother lived there by choice. The news also featured a fine house that Smythe owns not far from the compound; apparently the living conditions of his followers were beneath him. His whereabouts are currently unknown. I made sure I added all that to my letter to Walden with the faint hope he’d see the man for the selfish manipulator he is.

  Yesterday morning, I called Amelia, hoping she’d been summoned to see Walden in jail. It was foolish, of course. I know she would have called. But I need to feel like I’m doing something.

  She said, “I want you to be prepared. The DA is looking for maximum sentencing. He’s doing his homework, so I need to do mine. First of all, I’d like all the good character references you can accumulate—testimony from teachers, ministers, if he performed community service, if he was a Boy Scout, that kind of thing. Let’s show the court who he was before he met Mr. Smythe. Also, your family history. We want the court aware of all extenuating circumstances that made him vulnerable to a man like Smythe. Now, I know there
was some trouble surrounding your other brother years ago, before he came to live with Ross’s family. He was arrested, then released and never charged, is that correct?”

  “How can that be relevant to Walden’s sentencing?”

  “Walden gave a guilty plea without any bargaining. He’s an easy mark for the DA to prove how tough he is on crime. And frankly, people are terrified of crazed cult members since the Manson murders a few years ago.”

  I thought of Sharon Tate and my blood went cold. It finally hit me. To the world, Walden isn’t a vulnerable, damaged boy led astray. He’s Tex Watson, reviled killer.

  “The prosecution will argue Walden is unpredictable and unstable. He’ll claim violent familial tendencies—thus the concern over your other brother’s circumstance. The DA wants this to hit big in the papers. It’s an election cycle, you know.”

  My instinctive reaction is to circle the wagons of our family—just like Gran. It was a shock of cold water, finally understanding that she and I aren’t so dissimilar.

  I take a moment to steel myself and then tell her the ugly truth. All of it, Dad, the night of the bonfire, and how Griff was arrested for murder. But my wagon-circling nature couldn’t be completely eradicated. I had to add that Chief Collie’s overreach, his jealous hatred of Gran’s family, his fervor to blame Griff without adequate proof, led to Griff’s arrest before the coroner even ruled on cause of death.

  “Collie showed up a few hours after her body was discovered and took Griff from school in handcuffs. Locked him in jail and wouldn’t let any of us see him.”

  “He was a minor! What about your parents? Were they called in?”

  “No. Dad was . . . well, he was missing at that point. But Gran and I went to the station. They wouldn’t let us talk to him.”

  “And your mother?”

  “She . . . we didn’t tell her until after the lawyer got there. Gran was too afraid she’d make things worse—and she would have.”

  “Hmm. I think I’ll look into that case. I don’t want to be blindsided.”

  I just hope she has the chance to get blindsided. “I appreciate you doing all of this preparation. I hope it doesn’t go to waste.”

  “Me too. I’ll be in touch.”

  So now, more waiting. I should be champing at the bit to find another job, it’s not as if I can live forever on my two-week severance.

  When I first arrived home, I had a long list of things I wanted to confront Gran about—things I saw as shortcomings that contributed to our family’s disintegration. I wanted to make her face the truth of Dad’s suicide. But now I am at peace allowing her to believe whatever she needs to about his death to get through the day. Losing a child has to be enough to break the strongest soul.

  * * *

  It’s late afternoon when I park the rental car in front of the post office to mail my daily letter to Walden—and one to Griff that I wrote in secret. I’m fishing in my purse for my wallet as I climb the granite steps when someone says, “I heard you were back in town but didn’t believe it.”

  Grayson Collie is standing right in front of me, same cruel smirk, same greaser hair. He’s one step up, looking ten feet tall. All the miles between me and my childhood vanish.

  It pisses me off that I’m still afraid of him.

  I step around him and stop on the step above his so we’re eye to eye. “I heard you’re still an asshole. And I did believe it.”

  He looks as stunned as if I’d gut-punched him. Then he rears his head back and guffaws, showing his crooked teeth all the way back to his tonsils. “Ain’t you gone to the gutter.”

  I tilt my head to the side and raise a brow. “Must have if I’m face-to-face with you.” He’s wearing a green utility uniform with his name embroidered on the chest just beneath the Sinclair dinosaur. “I see you’re finally man enough to take my brother’s high school job.”

  “If we weren’t here where God and everybody can see, I’d show you how much of a man I am.”

  “I knew the only way you could get a woman is by forcing her against her will.”

  He leans closer and his eyes burn with so much hatred, I recoil. He says through tobacco-stained teeth, “I didn’t touch that slut—wasn’t anywhere near the campus that night.”

  Even though the sun is beating down on my head and it’s ninety degrees, I go as cold as river stone. I try to sound glib when I say, “What made you think of her?”

  For the briefest second, I see fear in his eyes. Then he regains his sneer and says, “Griff James oughta be in prison right now.”

  Not wanting him to see my suspicion, I head on up the steps. “Certainly was great seeing you again. I hope I never repeat the pleasure.”

  “We thought we’d rid this town of Jameses. Go back to wherever you came from.”

  “If I didn’t hate this place so much, I’d stay just to piss you off.” Then I put on the Southern debutant smile Gran taught me. “You have a good day now.”

  Disgust fills me, and grayness presses the edges of my vision. I barely make it inside the post office before I collapse on the wooden bench in the lobby and put my head on my knees.

  * * *

  Tommy lives in a little green house on the edge of town, not a full mile from the house where he grew up. I came straight from the post office and have been sitting on the front steps long enough that my backside is numb when he gets home.

  “Hey,” he says with a smile. “This is a surprise. I was hoping I’d see you again before you leave.”

  “Well, it’s not like you don’t know where to find me.”

  He sits down beside me. “Guess I wasn’t sure . . . I dunno . . . I figured you don’t want anything to do with this town anymore.”

  “Maybe not this town, but there are a few people in it I’m still pretty fond of.”

  “Want a beer?” he asks.

  “I could really use one, or six.”

  “Let’s move to the backyard or else the whole town will have you pregnant with my baby by tomorrow—what with the beer and all.”

  “You do know how this place works.”

  “That I do. But it’s home.”

  We sit in metal Griffith chairs so heavily oxidized from the sun you can barely tell they used to be aqua. Neither of us seem ready to talk. I wipe down the sweat on the can of Pabst Blue Ribbon in my hand, then slip off my sandals and bury my toes in the grass. The crickets and the tree frogs have already started their evening competition. Living in the city, I’d forgotten how deafening the tiniest creatures can be.

  Sitting out here brings back the best parts of my childhood: summer days spent trailing Tommy and Griff. Days when the streetlights determined when it was time for Tommy to go home. Of course, Griff and I had no such limitations.

  “Your momma and daddy doing well?” I ask. Mrs. Murray was one of the few in town who never looked at Griff and me with pity or condemnation. When she gave me Tommy’s sister’s hand-me-downs, it was in the spirit of family, not charity.

  “They are. Dad’s thinking about retiring . . . as if that will ever happen. Tina has a baby now, Charlotte, after Momma. So you can imagine. She says being a grandma is reward for putting up with all the trouble we caused as kids.”

  I smile. “She’s a special woman, your momma.”

  “You and Griff were always special to her, too. She worried herself to death when you ran off—we all did.”

  There’s that growingly familiar tingle of regret. “I’m sorry. I was so upset, I didn’t think anyone would care—I didn’t think of anyone at all.”

  “Well, it was an unpleasant time.”

  Now there’s a genteel Southern understatement for life being ripped apart by a cataclysmic shit storm.

  We drink in silence for a minute, letting the past settle.

  I finally get to my business. “I ran into Grayson Collie today.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Me too. He’s just as horrible as ever.” As hard as I try to push it away, the image of him
leaning close to me, hatred burning in his eyes fills my mind. I swear I can smell his breath again. “He said something that got me thinking. I wanted to talk to you about it, see what you think.”

  “Can’t imagine him saying anything even remotely thought-provoking, but go ahead.”

  I force myself not to rush into my theory, but lead Tommy on the path and see if he comes to the same idea.

  “He was so infuriating!” I say. “He made a disgustingly macho comment, and I responded with a flip retort about him needing to force a woman to get anyone to be with him. And he immediately took a flying nine-year leap to the dead girl on campus. You should have seen him. He was so . . . explosive.”

  “And?”

  “Why go there? And that death was ruled an accident. Why react so strongly?”

  “He’s a hateful man.”

  I can tell Tommy’s thinking.

  “Back then,” I say, “Griff told me Lena liked high school guys.”

  “Only the big, athletic ones. Didn’t go for those not yet through puberty.” He strokes his upper lip. Poor Tommy went through the motions of shaving before he needed to, just to save face.

  “You knew?”

  “Everybody knew—guys anyway.”

  “Is it possible Grayson was one of them?”

  “Could have been.”

  “What if he was with her that night? The fact that his mind immediately went to her after all these years—”

  “Nobody had to force Lena.”

  “No. But somebody might have had to feel like he was forcing her in order to . . . you know.”

  “That doesn’t narrow the field to Grayson Collie.”

  “No. But when you put all those things together it could. And his dad is the police chief; we both know he covered up plenty of other stuff Grayson’s done over the years.” I pause, realizing I’m trading on a friendship I abandoned. “You’re in the police station, where all the evidence is kept. I was wondering if you would take a look and see if they actually questioned anyone else, if they followed any leads, that kind of thing. Why did they arrest Griff even before the cause of death was determined? Why rush to arrest anyone at all when it could easily have been an accident or suicide?”