The Summer Girls

by Mary Alice Monroe

  “She’s turning eighty, after all.”

  “I know. That’s my point. She’s always been old to me. I mean, when I was ten, she was . . .” Carson paused to do the math. “Fifty-six, which isn’t old, really.”

  Lucille huffed from the stove. “I should say not!”

  Carson smiled as she continued. “But it seemed old to me. So did sixty, seventy. But she was always so alive, so vibrant, in my mind. Ageless.”

  “She’s not Santa Claus,” Dora said.

  Carson was taken aback by the derision. “No, of course not,” she replied, crossing her arms across her chest. “It’s just that Mamaw was always the same in my mind. Immortal. But when I came home and saw her, she not only looks older, more frail—but I swear she’s shrinking.” She swirled the wine in her glass. “I suppose for the first time it hit me that Mamaw isn’t always going to be here, waiting. I shouldn’t take for granted that she’ll always be here for us. Each year, each day, is a gift.”

  “I don’t take her for granted,” Dora said. “I come out to see Mamaw every chance I get.”

  “You’re lucky you live so close.”

  “Not close, exactly,” Dora clarified. “With good traffic it’s still some forty-five minutes away. I still have to plan. I mean, she’s not across the street. But I make the effort.”

  Carson was silenced by the implied criticism that she had not made the effort in several years. But she couldn’t defend herself.

  Lucille turned and said, “You know, I can’t recall the last time you came out to see Miz Marietta.”

  “Why, Lucille, you know we come every summer,” replied Dora.

  “Uh-huh,” Lucille said, turning again to the pot. “When it’s nice enough to visit the beach.”

  “You know Mamaw joins us every Christmas, Easter, and Thanksgiving. For every special occasion.”

  There followed an awkward pause during which Dora’s cheeks flamed and Carson turned to help herself to another piece of cheese. She knew that Lucille wanted to level the playing field for her by eliminating false claims, and for this she was grateful.

  “How’s Nate?” Carson asked, changing the subject.

  “Oh, Nate! He’s fine,” Dora replied robustly. “You’ll see him shortly. I expect he’s getting settled in his room now.”

  Carson paused before biting her cheese. “He’s here?”

  “Of course he’s here. Where else would he be? I always bring Nate with me so he can visit his great-grandmother. And it’s about time he met his aunts, don’t you think?”

  “Of course. I’m delighted. B-but . . .” Carson stammered. “I thought—”

  “Thought what?” Dora asked, sensing a small challenge.

  “I thought this was a girls-only weekend.”

  “Mamaw would be brokenhearted if her only great-grandchild didn’t come.”

  “Where will he sleep?”

  “In the library, where he always sleeps.”

  “Harper is going in the library. It’s always been Harper’s room.”

  “Now it’s Nate’s room. She can sleep somewhere else.”

  “There is nowhere else,” Carson replied, refraining from adding as you well know. Dora had always been bossy, even as a child, but she was never unreasonable. “Well, Nate can share your room. You have twin beds.”

  Dora rubbed her hands together. “I’ll just check with Mamaw. She’ll know what to do.”

  Carson put up her hands. “Don’t bother her with this. She’s napping. Look, Dora, I know for certain that Mamaw planned for Harper to sleep in the library because I have the task of freshening the rooms and adding flowers. If you don’t want Nate to sleep in your room, perhaps it would be best to bring him back home. At least for the party.”

  Dora’s face flushed. “I can’t,” she replied in a voice laced with both resentment and distress. “There’s no one else to take care of him.”

  Carson sighed and brought her fingers to the bridge of her nose. She had to remember that Dora was in the throes of a divorce. Lucille turned off the stove and set down the spoon with a clatter that interrupted any more talk. She faced them, lifting the hem of her white cotton apron, and began wiping her hands with agitation.

  “I’ll go on over and help the boy move his things to your room,” she told Dora in a tone implying the matter was settled. “Carson, you best go get changed for dinner and wake up Mamaw. Dora,” she said kindly, “take a minute for yourself and freshen up after your travels. Gumbo’s ready!”

  Dora bent over the bathroom sink and splashed water over her face. It felt so inviting that she wanted to strip the clothing from her body and jump into the shower. How lovely it would feel to dive into the ocean like Carson and wash away the dust and perspiration and memories of this horrible day.

  But of course she didn’t have time for a shower, much less a swim. Nate would have a hissy fit about the move to this room and Lucille, bless her heart, would not be able to handle him once he got in a mood.

  Dora grabbed a towel and began blotting her face. She paused, catching her reflection in the mirror, something she was loath to do. She barely recognized the puffy, pale face she saw in the reflection. Her blue eyes, once described by Cal as the brilliant blue of a gem, appeared lifeless. She should stop drinking so much . . . and cut out sweets, she told herself even as she knew she would not. She no longer had the energy to deny herself the small pleasure of a glass or two of wine or a bar of chocolate. She reached up to tug out the elastic already slipping from her head and then, turning her gaze away from the mirror, brushed her hair with quick, efficient strokes. Her mind was already shifting from herself to Nate and what she might prepare for his dinner. As if he would even consider touching the gumbo . . .

  “Oh damn,” she muttered, leaning against the sink in dismay. She’d forgotten to stop at the grocery store on the way to pick up gluten-free bread. Now she’d have to go out and find a loaf somewhere or he’d not have anything for breakfast. Nate was so fussy about his food. She often thought that no matter how much foresight she’d applied to her day, for her—Eudora Muir Tupper—it was always in vain. She loved her son, wanted to be the best mother she could for him, but she was so exhausted at the end of each day, many nights she just cried herself to sleep. Sometimes she felt a prisoner in that crumbling castle of a house that she’d once been so eager to own.

  Dora went to lie down on one of the Jenny Lind twin beds, careful to leave her shoes off the patchwork quilt. She rested her forearm across her forehead, blocking the light. Her brain told her to jump up and help Lucille with Nate, but her body wouldn’t budge from the soft mattress. She felt as though she were slipping back in time, back to when she was young and on vacation at Mamaw’s house and didn’t have a worry and could sleep in bed for as long as she wanted.

  Silence returned and slowly her muscles relaxed. Lucille was a patient woman, she rationalized, who had dealt with Nate’s outbursts since his birth. Just a few minutes more and she’d get up and help. It had been a very tough day for the little guy. He didn’t like change and he’d sensed something was up from the moment he awoke and spotted the suitcases in the hallway.

  “No, no, no, no, no!”

  Dora groaned, recognizing the fury in Nate’s voice. No way Lucille could handle what Dora knew was the beginning of a full-blown tantrum. This was the real reason why she had not wanted to move Nate from the library. She should have explained right away to Carson that Nate had autism and that the library was the room Nate was accustomed to sleeping in, with his favorite books and the Nintendo he adored. How he had already been frazzled by the move to Mamaw’s house.

  Then the sudden sound of a crash and glass breaking forced her to her feet.

  Mamaw’s eyes sprang open when she heard the crash. She’d fallen asleep with her book half-open across her lap. She simply couldn’t keep her eyes from drifting shut—no fault of the story line. She was simply tired so much of the time now that the lure of sleep and dreams proved overpowering.<
br />
  She tilted her head, listening intently. The child’s scream could only have come from Nate. She heard the rustle of feet on the stairs, then the voices over Nate’s screams. Lord, that boy could holler. Mamaw sat in a tense silence listening to the uproar across the hall. In time the screaming subsided and she heard again the retreating footfalls in the hall. There was a knock on the door and the crack of light as it opened.

  “Mamaw? Are you awake?”

  “Carson? Lord, yes, I’m awake. No one could sleep through that racket.”

  She heard Carson’s throaty chuckle as she walked across the bedroom in her long-legged gait, pausing to flick on a small lamp. Warm light flooded the room, revealing Carson in a long summer shift of fiery oranges and yellows. Carson had inherited Mamaw’s long, lean body. Mamaw smiled and reached her arms out to her.

  Carson drew near and bent to kiss her cheek.

  “Mmm . . . I love your perfume,” Carson said, closing her eyes. “I feel like I’ve always known this scent. Kind of musky. I always think of you and this scent as inseparable.”

  Mamaw felt a twinge in her heart and stroked Carson’s long hair. “It’s Bal à Versailles. Actually, my dear, it was your mother’s scent. She gave me my first bottle and I’ve worn it ever since.”

  Carson’s tanned face paled a shade and she slunk down to her knees beside Mamaw’s chair.

  “It was my mother’s scent?” she asked with wonder. “How did I never know that?”

  Mamaw shrugged lightly. “I can’t say. We speak so seldom of Sophie. She always wore this perfume. She was French, of course,” she added, as though that explained it.

  “There’s so much I don’t know about her,” Carson said in a soft voice.

  Mamaw patted Carson’s hand. Oh, child, she wanted to tell her. There is so very much you don’t know about your mother.

  “The bottle is on my bathroom counter. Why don’t you try it? The scent is very particular about who can wear it. It must be the patchouli or the musk. It might smell very different on you. But if you like it, I’ll give you the bottle. I’d like to think we share a scent, chérie.”

  Another shout of “No!” pierced the air.

  “What is all that ruckus about?” Mamaw cried.

  Carson rose to her feet. “Nate’s freaking out because we told Dora he had to sleep in one of the twin beds in her room. He was in the library.”

  “Harper is meant to sleep there.”

  “That’s what I told her.”

  “Dora does have her hands full, doesn’t she? She ought to get more help with Nate, especially now that Cal has left. Poor dear, she’s exhausted.”

  “I hardly recognized her. I thought she looked older.”

  “Yes, well, it’s her weight, too. Nothing adds years to your looks like letting your figure go. Perhaps you could encourage her to go on a diet. Exercise more. You’re her sister, after all.”

  “Oh no, I’m not going there.”

  “Well, you could try,” Mamaw said persistently. “It’s that big house that’s weighing her down.”

  Carson rolled her eyes. “And Cal . . .”

  “Hush now. You mustn’t mention the divorce while she’s here. She’s very sensitive. She needs our support now, more than ever.”

  From the hall, the screaming took on the rising crescendo of a supersonic jet taking off. Mamaw felt her heart skip a beat. She threw up her hands and said in a shaky voice, “Hurry and tell Dora to let that poor child sleep in the library if it means that much to him. I’ll figure something else out for Harper. I simply cannot listen to that boy scream any longer! My birthday party will end up being my funeral!”

  Dora ran across the hall into the library to find Lucille holding a squirming Nate tight and speaking to him in a low voice. Nate was inconsolable, flailing his arms wildly. Before Dora could reach them, Nate’s hand belted Lucille in the nose. She fell back, hands against her shocked face. Nate’s face registered not even a flash of acknowledgment that he’d hurt Lucille. Instead he spied his mother, pointed at her, and shouted, “You said to sleep here. I always sleep here at the beach!”

  Dora looked at Nate’s wide blue eyes, more terror-struck than angry. She walked slowly up to Nate and spoke in a low, soothing voice. She reassured him with instructions. “Yes, Nate, you’re sleeping at the beach house. But tonight you’re sleeping in Mama’s room, okay? We will bring your Nintendo to Mama’s room. All right?”

  “No!” Nate shouted at the top of his lungs.

  From over her shoulder Dora saw Carson standing beside Lucille, her eyes wide with shock and incomprehension. Dora turned back to Nate, relieved that he allowed her to put her arms around him as she continued the soothing litany, knowing he would respond more to her tone than the words. Dora didn’t have time or even the desire to explain autism to Carson. It was like when Nate had a meltdown in the grocery store. People would rudely stop and stare at his head banging or whining, looking at her with critical eyes as though she were a bad parent, as though it were within her power to rein him in.

  Amid the chaos, no one noticed a small, redheaded woman standing hesitatingly at the door. Her large eyes were wide with shock.

  “Hello?” Harper called out.

  It was not the entrance she’d hoped for.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Dinner that evening was as long as a month of Sundays. Not that the meal wasn’t delicious—Lucille had put her back into preparing a spicy gumbo, crisp hush puppies, and Carson’s favorite banana pudding for dessert. It was the tension at the table that Carson couldn’t stomach.

  It should have been a happy homecoming. A time of laughter and catching up. Instead, Carson could feel a headache blossoming from holding in the dozens of pithy comments pressing against her tight lips.

  To be fair, the evening started off badly. Dinner was late and everyone was still on tenterhooks after Nate’s hissy fit. Dora had prepared a special plate for him and brought it on a tray to his room for him to eat while he watched his favorite programs on television. Then Harper caused brows to rise when she refused the white rice. And they couldn’t help but stare when she began daintily picking out the pork sausage from her gumbo with her fork. Lucille harrumphed loudly but everyone held their tongue politely.

  Except Dora.

  “Are you a vegetarian now?” she asked in a censorial tone.

  “No,” Harper replied blithely. “I just don’t prefer red meat.”

  “Pork is a white meat,” Dora said, correcting her.

  Harper looked squarely at her sister and smiled. “Then, meat,” she clarified.

  When the hush puppies were passed, Harper refused those as well.

  “You don’t like hush puppies anymore, either?” Dora asked, clearly annoyed. “There’s no meat in those.”

  Carson gave Dora the look, the one that told her to stop badgering Harper about her food, but Dora ignored her. Carson remembered Harper being quiet and subdued as a child. That, and her petite size, earned her the nickname “the little mouse.” Dora could never boss Carson around the way she did Harper. In fact, sticking up for Harper was one old habit that Carson could settle back into quite seamlessly.

  “It’s not that I don’t like them,” Harper replied pointedly. “I don’t eat fried foods. Or anything white, for that matter.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Dora asked, pressing her. “You don’t eat anything white?”

  “White flour, white rice, white noodles, etc.” Harper shrugged. “It’s not as healthy as brown.”

  “Oh for pity’s sake. Lucille slaved over this dinner, you know,” Dora said, fuming. “The least you could do is try it.”

  “Dora, she’s not your child. She can decide for herself what to eat,” Carson said.

  Harper’s pale cheeks turned pink. She turned to Lucille and smiled sweetly. “In that case, I’ll definitely try one of these magnificent hush puppies, Lucille.” She pinched a single hush puppy and laid it on her plate. Then she reached for the
collard greens and began serving herself a big helping. “These smell heavenly. You make the best collards anywhere, Lucille.”

  Lucille puffed up, her pride assuaged. “I’ll make some whole-wheat waffles in the morning,” she offered. Then under her breath she added, “I’ll fatten you up some, don’t you worry. You’re so skinny I can’t find your shadow.”

  “I, for one, am going to eat every bite,” Dora said, picking up her fork.

  “I’ll bet,” Carson muttered, then caught a warning glance from Mamaw.

  “The amount of food one eats doesn’t imply the appreciation of the food,” Mamaw said, picking up her fork. “Harper never was a big eater, if I recall. Dora, you’ve always had a healthy appetite.”

  Dora flushed and stared at her plate, heaped with food.

  The dinner conversation took a turn for the worse when Dora began to complain about how the island had changed, how much she missed its sleepier days, and how the Northerners—especially Manhattanites—were destroying the South all over again, this time using dollars and loose morals as bullets.

  Divorce or no divorce, Carson thought Dora needed to be taken down a peg. To Harper’s credit, however, she seemed to have her own method. Harper ignored Dora’s comments, focusing instead on cutting her shrimp and okra into ever-smaller pieces, which was driving Dora to bristle more than any comeback could.

  As soon as the dessert of banana pudding was finished, Mamaw rose and announced that she was tired and going to retire. Then she suggested that the girls do the dishes, seeing as how Lucille had worked all day preparing the meal.

  Dora immediately left to check on Nate, with a promise to return. Harper and Carson went into the kitchen and faced, flummoxed, a mountain of dirty dishes, pots, and pans.

  “Welcome home!” Carson called out, grabbing a towel from the counter.

  Harper grinned wide and walked across the room to take an apron from the wall hook. “I don’t think I remember how to wear one of these things,” she said with a laugh as she slipped the loop over her head. The apron was pale green with ruffles along the shoulder straps and hem. Her hands fumbled with the strings behind her back. “I haven’t worn one since I was maybe ten. In fact, I think this is the same apron.”