Drummond Girls were supposed to be there for each other, wasn’t that the whole point? “Being there” meant listening to each other’s problems; knowing when to give advice and when to stay quiet; planning adventures together, protecting each other, sharing the grief of our lives, as well as the fun. “Being there” also meant literally being there. Having your body in the right place at the right time. And this had been one of those times.
What kind of friend was I, what kind of friends were any of us, if we couldn’t even manage to make it to a Drummond Girl’s wedding on time?
We tried to make the best of it—we were finally there after all—and congratulated Jill and Brett, said hello to Jill’s mom, and toasted the newly married couple. After the pig roast, after all the children went to bed and the dogs exhausted themselves and lay down, after the old people left in their old cars and the woods got dark and the bonfire got big, the reception turned into a party and the party got pretty crazy.
Pete lost his baseball cap when he jumped around inside the inflated bounce house, the one Jill and Brett had rented for the kids. A dirt bike was gassed up and, with a periodically changing cast of riders, went tooling through the forest at ridiculously high speeds, somehow missing every tree and rock. One of Brett’s friends, an auto mechanic, had a dozen air bags he’d salvaged and he tossed them, one after the other, into the bonfire. The explosions reverberated through the forest and sent sparks fifty feet in the air.
A little while after that, I saw the outline of Jill walking toward the bonfire. She strode toward the last of her guests, looking thoroughly at home and content. She’d wanted a family of her own ever since she’d been barely out of her teens; it had taken twenty years, but she’d finally willed it to come true.
“Finally got Hannah down,” Jill said, plopping into the empty lawn chair next to me. “She was so excited about the wedding, I didn’t think I’d ever get her to sleep.”
The rest of the Drummond Girls had gone home; my husband and I were anxious to try out the Skamper and so we were staying to camp.
“I’m so sorry we missed the ceremony,” I told her, feeling my eyes sting. Perhaps they were already close to tears from the campfire smoke and the air bag gas, but the thought of Jill looking out at her guests just before she took her vows and not seeing a single one of her Drummond sisters made it impossible to hold them back. I could feel them rolling down my cheeks, and I didn’t even try to wipe them away.
“Oh, honey!” Jill said, surprised. She leaned forward and put her small hands on both my knees, then cocked her head to the side. The golden flames of the bonfire reflected off her face and she looked… wise.
“I knew you were here with me. I felt you. Don’t you understand that? Anytime anything big happens for one of us, we’re always going to be there. Even if we’re not there, we’re there. You know?”
We’d been there with each other in the best of times—the weddings, the adventures, the successes, and the babies—but we’d been there with each other in the hard times, too. Even when we weren’t there, when we were late or far away or blissfully ignorant of what was going on in each other’s lives, we were still there.
When Jill found the strength to leave Marty and then Tony, we’d been with her.
When Andrea’s mother died of cancer, we’d offered comfort.
When Linda found Kenny cold in his bed that morning, we’d felt her grief.
And when Mary Lynn got out of her bed in the early-morning hours, never to return to it again, I hoped she’d known we were right there, too, inside that house with her. I hoped pain hadn’t really been the last thing she’d felt.
Jill hadn’t meant our friendship was perfect or that it gave us the power to float around each other, invisible, like ghosts or spirits. She meant our friendship gave us the ability to transcend time and distance. Because we knew each other so well and loved each other so much, we could insert ourselves—and all of our love and hope—into the moments we’d missed.
The happiest ones, the hardest ones, it made no difference. In our hearts, we’d been there. Even if our bodies were doing something meaningless like crawling around in a patch of weeds looking for a lost cell phone.
“Hey, I’ve got something I want to show you,” Jill said.
She ran into the house and came back a minute later with a photograph. It was of their woods—in the light of the bonfire I could see the same big tree trunk, but in the center of it was a dark blur. Even out of focus, the shape was unmistakable. A black bear standing on his hind legs.
I looked back at Jill, too surprised to say anything.
“We see bears all the time now,” she said. “Our woods are full of them.”
When I was just out of college, I’d always thought that by the time I reached a certain age, say fifty, my life would be pretty much set. I’d be in a mature marriage, my children would be in college, I’d have a couple good friends, a successful career, and my life would have settled into a comforting predictability.
But predictability was not something I valued in my twenties, so why did I think it would be desirable thirty years into the future?
Like that one, most of the assumptions I’d made back then turned out to be wrong. My “mature” marriage had been anything but, and in middle age I’d found myself a googly-eyed newlywed. My youngest son was more grown-up than I was, and his two older brothers had left college to work in restaurants. My writing career would not be a line angled consistently upward but rather a squiggle, with dramatic highs and lows.
Some marriages ended, some lovers died, all children grew up, parents aged, and most careers were fickle, especially creative ones. Sitting beside Jill and Brett’s wedding fire, I could accept all of that uncertainty because I had seven constants in my life. I had the Drummond Girls. And they had me.
“C’mon, c’mon, read mine next!” Bev pleaded. “It’s December ninth.”
“I know when your birthday is, Bev,” Jill said, flipping through the pages of the thick book. “We’re both Sagittarius, remember?”
“And so is Mar-di,” Bev sang out happily, putting her arm around my shoulders and squeezing. “So. What does mine say?”
Jill looked over the frames of her readers at Bev. I hadn’t known Jill to wear glasses ever, but the print was pretty tiny. Even at forty-five, Jill looked like a teenager, especially with her new short haircut. Those tortoiseshell glasses looked funny on her, like she was back home with her daughter, playing dress-up.
Jill found the right page, scanned it silently for a minute, then grinned.
“You’re the Day of Flamboyance, Bev,” she said. “It says here, ‘More than most, December ninth people must feel that they are the star of the show, the central character in the drama that is their life.’ Oh, and check this out: Your planet is Mars and you share your birthday with Dick Butkus and Redd Foxx.”
“Let me see that!”
Bev had been anxious for a reading, but now that she’d had her way, she didn’t see how she could be connected to a smelly linebacker or a foul-mouthed comedian.
It was late, dark enough for the devil outside, and it’d been hours since we’d returned to the house from Chuck’s. We were staying in a new place, the Paw Point Lodge, way out by Maxton Plains, and it was even more luxurious than Mariner’s Passage. Bigger porch, better kitchen, more bedrooms. All seven of us were still up, even Pam who usually went to bed so early. It was Sunday—technically, the wee hours of Monday—and in the morning we’d be headed home, so no one was too anxious for the night to end.
“It says your tarot card is the Hermit,” Jill continued. “And that you ‘can learn the values of self-examination and thoughtfulness, but must beware of living in an isolated fantasy world.’ Vigorous physical exercise is good for you—Look, it even says ‘aerobics’! But”—and here Jill looked at Bev and recited in all seriousness the book’s advice—“‘care must be taken in connection with martial arts.’”
Everyone, even Bev, laughed
and laughed at that.
The book, The Secret Language of Birthdays, was Andrea’s. She’d brought it along because she thought it would be fun to look up each other’s birthdays, but, martial arts aside, the readings were proving to be eerily accurate. Still, the idea of Bev karate-chopping anyone was hilarious. And I couldn’t help it, I pictured the year we were looking for Fort Drummond and she’d peed off of Andrea’s back bumper, hitching up her Pepto-Bismol pants. Then I imagined her approaching that man driving the gravel truck, her hands in the attack position. I stood to demonstrate this—I guess because that’s just the kind of thing Sagittariuses do—and the room cracked up.
“Dick Butkus? It does not say that!” Bev said. When she’d stopped laughing, she walked around the table and looked over Jill’s shoulder. “Does it?”
“See for yourself,” Jill said, lifting the heavy book up for inspection.
“Okay, just wait a minute,” Bev said, strolling off. “I’ll have to find my glasses.”
While she searched the kitchen, Susan suggested we play a guessing game. Jill would read a birthday description for one of us out loud and the rest of us would try to guess who it was.
“Okay, here’s an easy one,” Jill said. “Whose birthday is—and I am not shitting you here—the Day of the Guiding Light. Who shares their birthday with Queen Elizabeth, and whose—”
“Linda!” we yelled in unison.
“—force of authority cannot be questioned,” Jill finished.
Linda crossed her arms over her chest, shook her head, and smiled.
“You guys, this is crazy,” Jill said, still absorbed in the book. “Listen to this part. ‘Those born on August fourth are often the guiding light to whatever social group, political movement, family, or business they belong. They must remember to act in a responsible fashion since so many people are depending upon them.’”
Linda grinned and the rest of us looked around the table at each other in amazement. That was just so Linda.
“I found my glasses!” Bev said from the kitchen, holding them aloft like a trophy. “They were right inside the case. Right in my purse. Here on the counter! Right where I put them.”
“Okay,” Jill said, not looking up, “but we’re on Linda now.”
Bev retreated to the kitchen and began her standard cleanup routine. Although she was the oldest, Bev wasn’t what you’d call maternal and had never been one to mother us. But she did have one care-taking attribute and it was to keep the kitchen, in whatever house (or trailer) we were staying, tidy. An early riser like me, sometimes she banged the pots and pans around in the kitchen before daylight, and we weren’t always sure it was by accident. As Jill read on, Bev collected a few stray dishes and put them in the dishwasher.
Jill explained to everyone that the book also assigned a tarot card to each birthdate. Linda’s was the Emperor.
“I can live with that,” Linda said.
“That’s good ’cause your planet is Uranus,” Jill said, sticking out her tongue.
“Okay,” Susan asked, “who else?”
Jill flipped through the book for a minute and eventually stopped on another page.
“Who do you think shares their birthday with Linda Ronstadt?” she asked.
“Andrea,” Susan said automatically. “It has to be our Jukebox Hero.”
“Yup,” Jill said.
Andrea’s July birthday made her influential, dynamic, and inspirational, with a magnetic personality. However, people born on that date also tended toward excess where alcohol was concerned and were materialistic in their youth, not moving toward a deeper sense of spirituality until they aged.
Next, we’d guessed Susan as the highly practical one, a person who always had her life well under control, but lacked patience for the pompous or the stuck-up. Incredibly, the book also said people with her November birthday were fascinated by illegal activities and borderline business shenanigans, but for study purposes only and not to participate in. (Susan was a paralegal, and she specialized in bankruptcy!)
I thought back to those dated walkie-talkies, the ones that had seemed so cool to me when Susan first brought them. We’d transmitted all sorts of clues about each other from car to car, but few guesses had been the correct ones. Now, all Jill had to do was read off a couple attributes and we recognized each other immediately. It was hard for me to believe the power was inside the book. I much preferred to think it was inside our friendship.
“All right, Miss Mardi,” Jill said, arching an eyebrow at me, “how does it feel to be an Empress?”
“Oh, brother,” Linda said, letting out a groan.
“Mardi’s card signifies creative intelligence,” Jill read in a voice suited to high tea. “She is the Mother Earth nurturer, who embodies our dreams, hopes, and aspirations.”
“Yes,” I said, leaning back in my chair. “That’s definitely me.”
“Yeah?” Jill countered, chuckling. “Well, don’t get too excited, because it also says you’re secretive and strange.”
Secretive, I could buy—the girls were still mystified as to why I hadn’t told them how tough things had been for me and the boys after my divorce. But strange? How was I strange?
“How am I strange?” I asked.
“You like school,” Linda said, and everyone nodded, agreeing that was indeed strange.
“Okay, now what about you?” Susan asked, indicating Jill.
“I’m the Day of Mammoth Projects,” Jill said a bit wearily. “Year after year, no matter what, I stick to what I’m doing. You know, that probably means hauling drywall. Painting. Sanding. Whatever.”
“That’s perfect!” Bev called from the kitchen.
“Perfectly nuts,” Jill countered. “But as your Secretary of Defense, I’m also proud to say I share my birthday with a long line of military leaders. Oh, and Betty Grable.”
Jill had worked so long and so hard to create a home for herself. Not just the actual house she lived in now, but the people who lived inside of it with her. She might have thought “mammoth projects” meant construction, but I thought Jill’s true project had been creating a family.
Pam was the Day of the Direct Current, and the book said she was private and self-assured. Our Sheriff didn’t aspire to any outlandish heroics, yet always exuded a sense of quiet valor.
“Does anyone know Mary Lynn’s birthday?” Jill asked.
Susan did. It was June 2, and again Jill flipped back and forth until she found the date.
“The Day of the Problem Solver.”
As soon as she said that, our teasing stopped and we all went quiet. In the coming years, I’d learn what Mary Lynn’s boss had had to say about her, that she fixed printing mistakes and even fixed the machines themselves.
“Problems and difficulties abound for June second people,” Jill continued, “and dealing with them is a way of life. They’re usually social creatures so they may gain weight after too many parties and dinners out. But failure in no way dampens the enthusiasms of these hardy souls.”
Jill read on and told us that Mary Lynn had shared her birthday with Charlie Watts, the drummer for the Rolling Stones. They were one of my favorite bands—I’d actually won a ticket to see them perform in the Pontiac Silverdome on my twenty-first birthday—and when Jill said the name I immediately pictured the drummer. The small but dapper white-haired guy, the band member who’d always seemed so proper to me, even though he’d spent his career surrounded by epic impropriety. He’d also seemed so old, even back in the 1980s.
We were silent for a long while, allowing our individual thoughts to conjure Mary Lynn. She had already been gone when we’d started renting Mariner’s Passage, and now we were in another new place. She would have loved both of them.
Still, I was far too cynical to believe the day someone was born determined their personality. The authors were two men. How could they possibly know me and my friends so well? And yet, I couldn’t deny some of the descriptions had been uncanny. Linda and Queen Elizabe
th, Bev being the star of her own life, not to mention my need to be creative, and Jill’s mammoth project.
Andrea and Jill both believed in what the rest of us called “woo-woo stuff,” so I didn’t want to say anything that would hurt their feelings. When neither of them was looking, I’d reached for the book, turned it over to read about the authors, and what I saw confirmed my suspicions. One man had been born on the Cusp of Energy, the other on the Cusp of Revolution. Oh, please. When I felt the cusp of something coming on, I ate more roughage and it passed within a couple hours.
But, I couldn’t help myself. While everyone else’s thoughts were on Mary Lynn, I ever so casually opened the book and turned to the page for my birthday, so I could read the full entry myself. I shared the date with Anna Freud (Sigmund’s daughter) and heavy metal rocker Ozzy Osbourne. A thinker and a drinker. And then there was this: “December third people are not particularly devotional or religious; on the contrary, they tend to be highly rationalistic, perhaps even a bit cynical.”
Good Lord.
“I’m tired,” Linda said, looking around the table.
Until that moment, I’d been full of energy despite the hour. But Linda’s words descended upon the room like a spell, and my limbs felt suddenly exhausted. (“December third people get carried away with their thoughts and neglect their health.”)
Bev had finished cleaning the kitchen, and we gathered up our purses and our eyeglasses, our sweatshirts, extra blankets, and our Ambien. The smokers collected their cigarettes and lighters, and we said good night, sleep well, see you in the morning.
Maybe it had happened slowly, like the ice age’s glaciers. Or maybe it occurred all at once like the big bang and I’d been having too much fun to notice. Either way, the pleasures of Drummond had changed for me.
It seems distant and far away to me now, but there was a time when the location of our trip hadn’t mattered as much as the bars, the partying, and the freedom of being away from home, anywhere away from home. Once, Bev had even suggested we go somewhere else—Mackinac Island, Hilton Head, or the Caribbean. Now we couldn’t imagine anywhere but Drummond. Part of who we’ve become lives on the island even though most of the time we’re going about our lives hundreds of miles away. For us, there is safety in the very wilderness that some women our age probably fear. It is the reconnecting with that part of myself and of my friends that I look forward to. It’s the sound of the ferry docking, the smell of cedar, the girls’ aging voices, and their arms around my waist that I look forward to now.
The Drummond Girls Page 25
