* * *
My birthday is tomorrow, the first I will have without Mama and Mrs. Bellmont and Whit there to usher me into a new year.
The memories come to me at night. Memories of home, of those I’ve loved, of moments that shaped me. I lay in the dark on this makeshift bed under the stars, the sound of the pines rustling, the small creatures scurrying behind boards, and the smell of decaying wood, and I remember. Is it that one can only understand something through memory? Is it only later that we can examine it and see how it changed us?
It is Mr. Nate practicing the Gershwin piece I remember tonight. The rest of the house rested that afternoon except for the two of us. As he played, I sat outside the music room, behind the open door, listening in my surreptitious seeking of beauty. I listened as a writer with my journal in my lap, wanting desperately to describe with words this divine sound.
The piece began with notes like repeated drops of tears into a tin pail from three different sets of eyes, a man’s and two women’s. Then the thud of a large tear, saved up behind that man’s eye for years until it pushed itself out, despite his efforts to keep it inside, accompanied by the higher pitched plink from the women, who let their tears flow without restraint.
I thought, all is possible when there’s beauty such as this.
Yes, it is this I remember under the starlit sky tonight. That music, played by a master.
We could not know then what would happen hours later. Would either of us have loved it more, knowing it was the last time?
Where did it go, this moment of beauty?
Chapter 33
Whitmore
* * *
Whitmore’s classes were over for the year, final exams completed, and bags packed. The summer loomed before him. Warm, he slid out of his sweater as he walked to the campus mailroom, trying without success to keep his mind from Jeselle.
The tenth of June. Jeselle’s birthday. For the first time in their lives he would not be with her to celebrate. He understood, finally, that he was not going to hear from Jeselle. Her silence was an answer to the question he posed in his last letter. “Do you still love me? Just tell me one way or the other, and if it’s no, I will give up and stop writing you.” That was more than two weeks ago, and still no answer. His mother had written about Jeselle’s acceptance to Oberlin College. Why hadn’t she written to tell him herself? He couldn’t fathom what her silence meant except that she no longer loved him. Had she met someone else? Or was it that college would create a whole new life for her? A life with no room for him?
His roommate, Reggie, had invited Whit to join the King family in Cape Cod for the summer, and Whit had resolved to accept. He’d lingered after classes were over, hoping for some word from home that Jeselle wanted him to come back to her, but finally he wrote to his mother of his intention to join the Kings. He hated to be away from the lake house for the summer and knew that his mother would be disappointed. But seeing Jeselle each day with this separation between them would be too difficult. Yes, he’d go to the beach with Reggie and paint, try to forget about the past. Which he knew was nearly impossible.
Now, he went into the post office. The kind postmistress sorted mail into boxes behind her counter. Whit made an effort to square his shoulders and keep the wobble from his voice. “Anything for Bellmont today?”
“Let me look. Yes, here’s one.”
“Thank you.” It was from his mother. Of course it was. How could he have thought differently? How long would it take before he gave up hope? A week, a year, or the rest of his life?
“Have a good day, Mr. Bellmont.”
“Yes, you as well.” Once outside, he sat on a bench near the large magnolia tree and opened the letter. His mother wrote of her work with the Salvation Army, that his father was rarely home, and that she missed him terribly but that, of course, he could go to Cape Cod for the summer. But the next paragraph stunned him.
Jeselle was at Nate and Frances’s.
He sat, dazed, holding the letter in his lap. Jeselle was with Nate and Frances. But why? The fine hairs on the back of his neck stood up. There was either something his mother didn’t understand or didn’t know. He was certain of this. He searched his mind, trying to come up with a reason, but nothing came to him. There was only one way to find out.
He sprinted back to his room, ignoring the stares of other students strolling along the green paths of campus. In his room, he gathered his belongings and stopped only long enough to cash his mother’s check at the bank before making his way to the train station, where he purchased a one-way ticket to Montevallo.
It was late afternoon by the time he boarded the train. He took a seat across from a tired looking woman and a boy with sunken cheeks. Both were clean, with neatly combed hair, but the woman’s dress, so thin he could almost see through it, and holes in the boy’s shoes told their story. Still, the woman had perfect posture—the same proud carriage his mother had taught Frances when they were young. “Where you headed?” he asked.
“Birmingham. My husband’s been down there, trying to find work.” She looked at her hands before clasping them on her lap. “We’ve been staying at my sister’s.” The boy stared listlessly out the window as the conductor came through to take their tickets. This surprised Whit. When he was a child he’d been fascinated by the conductor. This child was hungry, he thought.
Remembering the sandwiches he’d purchased from the cafeteria, Whit pulled them from his bag and offered one to them. The woman began to protest, but the boy grabbed a sandwich before she could stop him. “Please, Miss, take one. They’ll spoil before long.”
She reached out with a bony arm and took one, smiling shyly. “You aren’t hungry?” she asked.
“I’ve got plenty.”
“Thank you kindly.” She watched him with veiled eyes for a brief moment before taking a bite of the sandwich. She reached for her son’s hand and held it in her own while they finished their sandwiches. It must hurt to have a hungry child.
The car bumped along the track in a rhythm, and after a time the boy and his mother drifted to sleep. The sky turned dark, and a quarter moon appeared, hovering above his window, following them, as the train traveled farther and farther south. Whit longed to be lulled to sleep, wished to escape from his restless and disjointed thoughts. But slumber eluded him. He slumped against the window, staring unseeing into the night sky, his sketchbook open to a new page. If only his mind were as blank as the sheet of clean paper, he thought, before pulling a pencil from his bag and beginning a sketch of the sleeping mother and son.
Chapter 34
Lydia
* * *
A week after her first meeting with Professor Fye, Lydia walked the short distance to his house, thinking of how much had changed since she’d left home. Nathaniel Fye had come into her life, and nothing was the same and, she suspected, never would be. It was the hottest part of the day, and she was limp and overheated by the time she reached the shade of his front porch. Taking a deep breath, she tapped twice with the metal knocker on the front door. A black maid answered.
“Good afternoon, I’m Mrs. Tyler.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Tyler, but the professor isn’t home as of yet.” The girl had a refined quality to her speech and a proud carriage. “But Mrs. Fye is waiting for you in the sitting room.” She escorted Lydia into a spacious room decorated in shades of burgundy and green fabrics, plump cushions, and dark walls that made Lydia think of a coffin. The baby grand took up a large corner of the room, next to shelving filled with books.
Frances Fye was beautiful. She wore a white silk dress with a light pink sash tied in a perky bow at her waist. The skirt of her dress fell gracefully below the knees, displaying slender ankles. She stood as Lydia came into the room, offering her a soft, slender hand in greeting. For the second time that week, Lydia’s own hands felt immense and calloused.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Tyler. I’m Frances Fye.” Her voice had a silky southern lilt. “I apologize. My husb
and’s uncharacteristically late. Can’t imagine what’s gotten into him. He positively can’t stand it if he’s more than a minute late.”
She indicated the armchair next to the couch and waved her bone-white hand at the maid. “Jeselle, bring us our refreshments.” Frances’s eyes narrowed as she gazed at Lydia. Lydia looked down at her practical cotton dress and walking shoes. Why had she worn this? And her hair was a mess, falling flat and damp against her neck.
“We simply must call each other by our first names and be best friends if you are to be my husband’s protégé.” Frances continued without seeming to take a breath, “I hope you like your tea iced and sweetened. That’s how we drink it in this house.” She nestled farther into the cushions. It occurred to Lydia that her mournful gray eyes made her appear almost tragic.
“My late husband preferred it sweet as well.”
“And you, Lydia. What do you prefer?” She smiled, reminding Lydia of a cat looking at a grasshopper, wondering if it was worth the energy to pounce upon and chew through its crunchy exterior.
“It’s fine for me as well.”
“Nate didn’t tell me you’re a northerner.”
“I’ve lived in Alabama for almost twenty years.” What was this? Feeling defensive? What a ninny, she thought. I’m a middle-aged woman. No need to feel ridiculous next to this girl, who was ridiculous. And vapid. Obviously vain. Stand up tall the way God made you. Her mother’s voice echoed in her mind.
Frances gazed at her. “Are you wondering how old I am?”
Lydia smiled. “On the contrary, I was just admiring your beautiful skin.”
Frances flushed slightly at the compliment. “I’m twenty-six years old. My husband is twelve years my senior.” She sat up slightly as the maid came into the room carrying a tray with iced tea and biscuits the size and shape of a quarter along with a dish of strawberry preserves. Lydia moved to assist the girl but hesitated when she felt Frances’s hooded eyes on her. She met Frances’s gaze for a moment and saw faint disapproval. Lydia folded her hands on her lap. “I understand you’re from Atlanta?”
“My father’s family has lived in Georgia since the early 1800s. Before the war we had a thriving plantation, sugar, tobacco, and cotton, but afterward, well, we all know the ending of that story.” She did a quick dart at the downward-gazing maid, who for all appearances seemed absorbed in the task of placing two of the biscuits with a teaspoon-sized dollop of strawberry preserves onto the delicate china plates. “Jeselle, you’re as slow as molasses. Do serve our guest before the sun goes down.”
Lydia accepted the plate from Jeselle. “Thank you.”
Frances drank from her iced tea and then made a choking sound, fanning her face as though she’d tasted a bitter root. “No need to ration the sugar, Jeselle.” She wiped daintily with one of the crisp white napkins that rested in her lap. “Needs at least three more tablespoons.”
Jeselle murmured. “Yes, ma’am.”
Lydia stifled a shiver and put her not-yet-tasted glass of tea into the outstretched hand of Jeselle, who quickly disappeared from the room.
Frances turned to Lydia with a slight shake of her head, which she assumed was meant to convey an apology for her maid’s behavior. “She’s the daughter of my mother’s longtime housekeeper. We couldn’t find a soul in this town who understood how to properly take care of a house. It’s bad enough I had to move to this godforsaken town, but to be alone all day while my husband works and not have decent help. Well, it’s positively awful.” She widened her eyes and moved her white hands in a flutter at her neck and then back again to her lap. “I don’t know if Nate told you but I suffer from poor health. Our town physician is Doctor Landry, and he’s the best there is, I mean, the very best.” She elongated and emphasized each word before continuing. “But the poor man can’t find a thing wrong with me. I’m a medical mystery, he said to me. And Lydia, it was terrifying the way his eyes looked at me, so tortured, like he would’ve given anything to save me, but for his own human weaknesses was not able to. He held his hands in mine and then wiped his brow, his distress apparent in every way. I believe he’s a little in love with me, the poor man.” She stopped speaking and looked toward the doorway. “I swear that child is an imbecile. If I weren’t so completely worn out this afternoon I’d march into that kitchen and find out what could possibly be taking her this long.”
As Frances finished the sentence, Jeselle entered, carrying the tray once more. Unabsorbed grains of sugar floated in the bottom of the glass pitcher.
After Jeselle left the room, Frances pinched off a small section of a biscuit and set it on the other side of her plate. “Mother sent three dozen of these jars of preserves when we first moved into this ridiculous elf house. This is the last jar. I begged Nathaniel to take me for a visit to Atlanta this spring, but he and Doctor Landry didn’t think I could withstand the trip. My mother’s unbearable and agitates my nerves no end.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
Frances’s eyes became glassy, and she stared out the window with a sad look on her face. “It’s been terribly difficult. And poor Nate, he worries so over me.”
Lydia put her glass of tea on the table, unsure of what exactly had been difficult, but she nodded sympathetically nonetheless. “I can imagine.”
“I’ve been awfully lonely in this sleepy ole town. When we lived in New York, before Nate’s accident, gads, the parties we were invited to. My husband was never much of a conversationalist, but he’s become downright somber in his old age. I swear there are nights when he doesn’t say more than two words. And I’m afraid music doesn’t much interest me. He plays after supper, but I’m more interested in reading magazines or listening to the radio shows.”
Lydia put her half-eaten biscuit back on the plate. “He plays?”
“With one hand, yes.” She pointed to the piano. “He’ll sit for hours long after I’ve retired. The sound is enough to make a person mad after a time. Says he must keep the skill in his right hand, but for the life of me I can’t understand why.”
Lydia tucked this unexpected bit of information away to think about later and told herself to be kind. One must endure this tiresome woman if one wanted to study with the professor. “I understand perfectly. My husband worked very hard when he was alive. We had a small farm, and he was a banker.”
“Were you lonely, then?”
Lydia thought it a strange question but tried to answer it honestly. “I don’t remember being lonely, no. I remember feeling tired a lot. My daughters kept me busy, along with the garden and keeping house. I had my music. I played, still play, every day for hours.”
“And your daughters, did they resent your devotion to something other than them?”
Lydia, again, was surprised by the question, for she had never thought about it. “I don’t know. I believe they knew it was something I must do, like breathing or eating. And they never knew any differently. We don’t have much choice in who our mothers are, I’m afraid.”
“I’m afraid not.” Frances looked at her with what Lydia could only think of as dislike. “You simply must come to dinner tomorrow night, Lydia.”
Chapter 35
Nathaniel
* * *
Nathaniel glanced at his watch for the sixth time in six minutes. He detested lateness. The dean had stopped by his office just as he was about to leave. Which he normally would have welcomed, since he enjoyed Dean Woodruff’s conversation and company, but he was anxious to meet Mrs. Tyler. When he finally arrived at the house, slightly out of breath and dripping with sweat, he was a full fifteen minutes late. Jeselle stood at the stove, stirring something that smelled of onions in a large pot. He took off his hat, hanging it on the nail in the mudroom.
“Afternoon.” Jeselle didn’t look up from the pot.
Wiping his face with his handkerchief, he looked at her closely for any marks or tears. She seemed well enough. “How was it today?”
“Fine. She’s in there with your studen
t.” She nodded toward the sitting room.
He loosened his tie as he went in. “Ladies. I’m sorry to be late.”
Mrs. Tyler leapt to her feet. “There you are.” She paused and smoothed the front of her dress. “I mean, your lateness is no trouble.” She pulled absently on a lock of hair that fell over one eye and glanced at Frances. “Your wife was entertaining me.” She turned to Frances. “The tea and biscuits were delicious.”
Frances rose from the couch. “I’ll take my leave then, now you’ve finally arrived. I’ve an appointment at the beauty shop.”
He looked at his wife in surprise. “But it’s not time for your weekly appointment, is it?”
“Darlin’, sometimes a woman needs a change. I’ll be back in time for a late supper. Lydia, a pleasure.”
“You as well, Frances,” Mrs. Tyler replied.
Mrs. Tyler found his wife ridiculous. Of this he was certain. He took off his jacket and tossed it onto the back of the couch.
Mrs. Tyler retreated toward the piano, resting her hand on its shiny surface as if it were an old friend.
“I’m sorry about Frances,” he said.
“Sorry?”
“Well, most women find her difficult.”
“Not at all. She’s exceptionally beautiful. We had a lovely talk.”
“Really?
“Well, sure, it was fine.”
“There’s no need to lie, Mrs. Tyler.”
“I’m not lying.” She looked at the floor, her cheeks red. “Not exactly.”
He smiled. “I see.” He motioned to the piano. “Shall we begin?”
Later that night, when he returned from taking Jeselle home, Nate found Frances sitting in her usual place on the couch, flipping through the same movie magazine she’d read earlier and sipping sherry. He looked closely at her hair. It seemed the same as when she’d left. Usually she came home from her weekly appointment in tight curls that loosened as the week went on. “I thought you went to the beauty shop?” he asked.
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