He changed his moves to a slow swing, bringing her in for long close embraces, ending the dance with a low dip. When he pulled her up into his arms again, she was his. He returned her to Greg, thanked her for the dance, and hurried off to dance with Maggie.
The evening wore on and Greg did his duty. Finally, using his skill for words, he opened up to Winna about his need for dancing lessons. Winna suggested they get together after school to practice, but Greg declined. He seemed ready to accept his fate as a non-dancing man. As the evening wore on—for Winna “wore” was the right word—they stood on the sidelines during the fast dances watching other kids jitterbug and boogie and they bumped around together to the slow music. Winna liked the boy but she wished the evening would end—she wished Johnny would ask her to dance once more.
It was getting late when drums sounded the urgent opening rhythm of Benny Goodman’s “Sing, Sing, Sing.” Greg dragged Winna to the sidelines. Within seconds, Johnny was at her side. He said nothing, just grabbed her hand and swung her out onto the dance floor.
“Don’t you ever ask a girl to dance?” she shouted above the music.
He shook his head “no” and, smooth as butter from his spot on the floor, whipped her around his tall agile body, spinning her into kicks, pushes, and underarm passes. The music and his moves worked hard on her and she let herself go. Whirling, swaying, her head, shoulders, and hips swung to the music. She could feel herself fly. All the other dancers had circled around to watch. Her face shone with the joy of it all. At the end of the dance, Johnny swung her out and pulled her back into his arms; breathless, she collapsed into the heat of his body and the whole crowd clapped and cheered.
WINNA ASKED JOHNNY to the Sadie Hawkins Day Dance. She dressed up as Daisy Mae in short cut-off jeans. She had sewn colorful patches to the seat and made a peasant blouse from a piece of dark blue cotton with large white polka dots. Johnny dressed up as Li’l Abner with a straw hat, white T-shirt, jeans, and big work boots. After the kids voted for the couple that looked most like the comic strip characters, Johnny and Winna were crowned king and queen.
After the dance, they parked outside the Grummans’ house on Peach Tree Ridge. Following a torrent of passionate kisses, he leaned back in his seat. “You are trouble,” he sighed, then looked into her eyes. “I love that about you.”
“I love you, Johnny.” Winna meant every word.
“Let’s go steady,” he said.
Winna did not have to think about his offer, she had dreamed about it. She reached out to touch his cheek “yes.” He kissed her and, when they parted, tugged the class ring off his finger.
“It’s too big for you.”
“I’ll wear it around my neck on a chain.”
He took her right hand in his and gazed at her emerald ring, turning it in the light, making it sparkle. “Are you going to give me your ring?”
Winna did not want to give him the ring, her grandmother’s gift. He had just given her a ring and she felt embarrassed by his question. “Girls don’t give rings to their steadies.”
He did not appear offended and coaxed with a smile. “We could start a new tradition.”
Winna laughed. “My grandmother would kill me.”
Even though her mother had said that she would not be allowed to go steady, her parents did not protest. Her father and Johnny’s father were brother Kiwanians and friends. Winna was fond of Mrs. Hodell, a tiny French woman who owned her own dress shop and seemed genuinely interested in her son’s new girlfriend. Mr. Hodell looked at Winna with a twinkle in his eye, as though he wished he were sixteen again.
Johnny called her every night. At school, they walked from class to class holding hands. He drove her home from school every day and asked her out to the picture show. Suddenly he was everywhere she was. It felt good when he kissed her—like he wished they would never part. She liked being his girl. No one had ever adored her the way he did.
16
1999
THE OAK-PANELED LIBRARY at the house on Seventh Street held hundreds of books on floor-to-ceiling bookshelves tucked under Moorish arches. The library table with the tall cloisonné vase still stood in the middle of the room. Juliana had kept the vase full of flowers—often from the rose garden. A collection of small antique oriental rugs were scattered on the parquet floor. For light, marble torchieres had been placed at intervals. Brass reading lamps hovered over leather club chairs. The only other seating was a small French tufted loveseat set between the two tall windows overlooking what had once been a beautiful lawn and the rose garden—once, Juliana’s collection of Boston ferns had flourished in the light there.
Winna had settled in with a cup of tea and a small book she had discovered in the library the day before, The Awakening by Kate Chopin. She had picked it up almost absentmindedly and turned to the opening sentence. She didn’t stop until she had read the entire first chapter. That night she read a few chapters before she fell asleep. Published in 1899, this well-worn edition of the novel smelled musty from all those forgotten years. Someone had marked the passages devoted to the married heroine’s desire for freedom and the love of a young man. It was the story of a woman trapped in a respectable yet predictable marriage with a husband who was unfailingly good to her. He did not rouse her passions, neither intellectual nor carnal. Servants and friends cared for her children, leaving her idle. Winna guessed it was her grandmother who had marked the pages and that she had returned to them again and again.
Winna didn’t have long to sit and read. Chloe and Todd had actually offered to help and might arrive at any minute. She turned the page and found a thin, yellowed newspaper clipping tucked close to the binding. It was a poem titled The Silent City of San Rafael by Juliana Smythe Grumman. She put the book down and read her grandmother’s poem. In blank verse, Juliana described a San Rafael Mountain scene in late afternoon light—its “rooftops, turrets, and minarets” outlined in misty light as if the ruins of an ancient city lay under the setting sun. The verse went on to say a painter, try as he might, could never capture what she saw or what God had created there. Winna read the poem twice and was considering this new glimpse of her grandmother when she heard a huge racket coming up the driveway—the bass from a car radio made the old windows rattle.
A shiny black pickup truck with dual wheels pulled up to the back door. The thundering stopped and a tall blond man wearing a cowboy hat on the back of his head got out of the driver’s seat. As she wondered who it could possibly be, she saw her sister hop down from the passenger seat. Winna shook her head and laughed to herself. So, that’s Chloe’s Todd and the truck is his very manly vehicle. Before she could move, she heard the kitchen door open and their voices.
“I’m in the library,” she called.
With the energy of an eight-year-old, Chloe burst through the door dragging the handsome young man with a six-pack of Coors in his hand. Her introduction was offhand.
“You both know who you are?” she asked, flopping into one of the leather chairs.
“Howdy there, Winnie,” Todd grinned, showing a row of perfect white teeth. “I’m pleased to meet you.” He extended his hand. “Chloe here’s told me all about her big sis.”
Winna laughed, dazzled by his smile. “Her mean old sister?” she asked, going to greet him.
His eyes invited her to like him. “Ah, now Winnie, she’s said nothin’ but good things—’bout how you was a life-saver when you gals was kids and all.”
With a Travolta cleft in his chin, Todd’s face was as open as the front page of the newspaper, his baby blue eyes as innocent as the morning sky. Just then, Winna felt quite willing to overlook his grammar, his accent, and the fact that he’d called her Winnie. He stood over six feet tall in his eye-catching python and black leather cowboy boots, a shock of curly blond hair peeking out from under his hat. Was it bleached? His face and muscular neck and arms were tanned from working in the sun. His black Levi’s looked as though they would keep his shape even on a hanger.
“He’s as sweet as he is pretty,” Chloe said, punching his hard belly playfully, “and the best thing about him is everything.”
Todd blushed. “Listen, ladies, I come on over here to work, and I plan to stay as long as you need me. I’ll put the beer in the icebox—for later. Now where do I commence?”
“I like your attitude, Todd. Let’s start in here,” Winna said. She couldn’t place his accent. “Where are you from?”
“Texas—moved out here ’bout five years ago.”
“Well there’s at least a week’s work in here alone,” Winna said. “Chloe, if you’d like, you can help me go through the books. I’ve got plenty of packing boxes. And Todd, see that old secretary over there? I don’t know why, but it’s blocking the door to a closet. Would you pull it out so we can get in there?”
Chloe approached the bookshelves as if she was searching for treasure. “When I was a kid, I never even looked in Gramma’s library.” She pulled out a book and read the title. “Strong Poison by Dorothy L. Sayers. That sounds ominous.”
“Gramma loved mysteries. Wow, look at this big beauty.” Winna pulled out an oversized picture book, A Thousand Years of Jewelry. She sighed and shoved the book back on the shelf. “I’m at it again. Every time I pick up anything in this house, I want to sit down and spend time with it. This is my curse.”
“Hey, you gals,” Todd called from across the room. “I can’t budge this here desk. Give me a hand? This thing’s taller than Shaquille O’Neal and wider.”
Winna and Chloe came to his aid and helped push the old secretary desk away from the door. Winna stood just outside of a closet full of things she remembered very well: old puzzles, family games like checkers, Parcheesi, and Scrabble, shelves full of outdated cameras and camera cases, old flash units, a slide projector, an 8mm movie projector, and several pairs of binoculars. Juliana’s postcard collection, scrapbooks, and Poppa Ed’s coin and stamp collections lay on the shelves just as they always had. The old chess set sat within easy reach.
Chloe took it down for a look. “Lordy,” she said, holding a white knight aloft. “He’s beautiful.”
“Would you like to have the chess set?” Winna asked.
“Yes! I’ll teach you to play, Todd.” She winked at him.
“I’m a seven card stud kinda guy, Clo.”
“Don’t tell me,” Chloe said, “real men don’t play chess?”
Todd winked and stuck his head inside the closet. “You gals, there’s this old wood box—full of papers, and some of them looks like they might could be stocks.”
Chloe looked at Winna with a huge grin. “This is more fun than Christmas morning!”
Todd pulled the carved chest into the light. The sisters knelt as Todd handed Winna a stack of stock certificates. Some were silver and gold mining stocks, others public utilities and assorted company stocks.
“I wonder if these are good anymore?”
Todd read the name written on the face of one. “This one belongs to Edwin Werner Grumman—your dad?”
“Our grandfather,” Chloe said.
Rummaging through a small box she had found in the chest, Winna unearthed a creamy white envelope inscribed with the following words: To be opened only after my death, Juliana S. Grumman. Under the envelope, she found a packet of letters, poems, and a notebook with what appeared to be a story written in Juliana’s hand.
Someone had opened the envelope. The letter was dated December 12, 1918. Winna read it aloud.
Dearest Edwin,
I hope you will let Mother and Daddy raise the baby until you marry again. Dear, you must try to understand my parents better than you ever have before. Remember that they love me and adore the baby and will love you if you give them half a chance.
Dear, you must marry again. You must not go through life without a woman’s companionship. I only ask three things—that you will take your time about doing it, three or four years even—that you will choose your new wife with one thought uppermost in your mind, that she will make a good mother for Henry. Last, you must not let her entirely supplant me in the life and affections of yourself and our son. Please don’t let the baby forget me, dear. It seems as though I could not bear that. And won’t you please study and think how to be a better father to little Henry?
Be wise and patient, dear, in governing him. Don’t make the mistake of thinking the rod the only method of punishment. Try to teach him cleanliness of body and mind. Try, yourself, to cultivate some of the little attributes of a gentleman so that you can be an example to him. It has been a grief to me, dear, that you have considered good grooming, proper table manners, and the little attentions to women of so little importance. Those things are important—they are a stranger’s only means of judging you. They are a human being’s marks of good breeding, not unsimilar to the distinguishing marks of a pedigreed animal.
Let our son choose his own vocation, following his natural bent. I would like him to have a college education. Encourage him in letters. I shall not live to become the writer I was meant to be. Let him know I want him to be a writer. Bring him up with a love of good books, paintings, and music. I need not speak of the outdoors, I know. You will expose him to nature’s beauties and lessons.
Let him live in our home. I’ve made your house into a home of beauty and refinement. I’ve not been as good a wife to you as you deserved. Our up-bringing, cultural backgrounds, differing values, and desires, all seemed to foster antagonism rather than harmony and unity. So it has not always been easy for me, dear. You have been good to me, though, and patient and generous, and there have been happy moments.
Love me always, won’t you, dear, and keep my memory green in our son’s mind. I wish I might have lived to cuddle my grandchildren.
I love you both, oh, so much.
Your own wife,
Juliana
Her handwritten last will and testament, a list of her possessions, and how she wanted them disbursed, followed. The will closed with, “Please do carry out my wishes in these matters with all good feeling. Juliana S. Grumman.”
Surprised by her grandmother’s wishes, Winna read the simple list remembering her husband, son, aunts, uncles, brother, mother and father, and someone named Daisy. “Please give Daisy my wrist watch. She hasn’t been a good friend to me and she has hurt me dozens of times, but I’m fond of her anyway. When the watch is given to her, I want her to know that she hurt me.”
Winna did a mental calculation. “She was in her twenties when she wrote this. Why would one so young expect to die?”
“Trying to control everyone—even beyond the grave,” Chloe said as she took the letter from her sister’s hand. “I love the part where she asks Poppa to let his son follow his natural bent and then she turns around and says, ‘I want him to be a writer.’” Chloe was pacing, fuming at the letter in her hand. “God, are these tear splashes in the ink? At least she showed some emotion, even if it wasn’t genuine.”
Looking utterly baffled, Todd asked, “You didn’t like your grandma?”
Chloe turned on her heels. “The real question is why my grandmother didn’t like me.”
SOMETHING HAD TO be done about Chloe. Winna felt that her sister had suffered too much. She had no idea why she was the favored grandchild and, in the end, her father’s favored child. When she was young, she had imagined her grandmother’s preference had something to do with birth order. She was the first. All that undeserved adoration had always felt like a curse.
After Chloe and Todd left, she opened a can of soup and ate it in the kitchen, then hiked up the stairs to Juliana’s bedroom, bringing with her the notebook she’d found with the will. Exhausted, she quickly dressed for bed, pulled back the pale satin coverlet, and climbed into Juliana’s tall walnut bed. Winna always felt like a
queen as she snuggled in under the high headboard with its raised panels, crown-like flourishes, finials, and dentils. Intending to read the short story written in Juliana’s hand, she turned on the bedside lamp and put on her glasses.
She had already wasted much of her time reading The Awakening and the letters Juliana had saved from people like her father and brother and Laura, a best friend who had moved to California. Winna had looked through everyone’s marriage certificates, some going back to the 1820s.
The story, in an old notebook filled with yellowing paper, was written in pencil and had no title. Remembering that her grandmother had wanted to be a writer, she lifted the notebook into the lamplight.
17
Juliana’s Story
CHARLOTTE BLACKLEASH sits alone in the morning room with the draperies drawn. It is her favorite room, the place where she keeps her desk and writes letters, where she sits in the big easy chair with her dainty feet up on the ottoman and reads the paper every evening (by the fire in winter). She scours the library for the books she wants to read and brings them here where she can curl up on the sofa, pull the soft blue afghan up around her shoulders, and read all day if she wants. It has been her favorite room ever since she moved into the small mansion her husband had built shortly before their marriage. Ruefully, she thinks back to those days—when she had been treasured. Then, she had looked forward to life with the wealthy man who adored her. In less than three years he had grown detached, otherwise engaged, always busy at his law office. Now she sees no sign that he even thinks of her, she hears no endearing words from his lips. He has to be reminded of her birthday and their anniversary. The first bloom is long gone from their romance.
Well, well, Winna thought. This sounds a lot like Juliana and Edwin’s marriage. She felt her face catch fire, pulled off the covers, and read on.
The sound of rain pelting the windows brings Charlotte a shiver. The windows look out on the rose garden, but Charlotte is deathly afraid of rain and has left the drapes drawn. It’s the thunder and lightning that terrifies her, but the sight of rain brings her feelings of sadness and dread. She remembers the violent storms from her childhood that wracked the skies above Grand River Crossing. How they had driven her to hide under the bed where her mother would find her fixed with terror.
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