The Sweet Smell of Magnolias and Memories

by Celeste Fletcher McHale

  “This is it,” Jacey said, her heartbeat stepping up a pace. “This is the bridge.” She opened the door and got out. Georgia followed her.

  Jacey stood at the foot of the bridge and stared.

  “Are you okay? Are you freaked out?” Georgia asked.

  Jacey shook her head. “I’m good.” She looked at the newly constructed bridge, still adorned by orange Men Working signs. It hadn’t been too long since they’d repaired it. Seeing it now was surreal. It looked so . . . ordinary, so nonthreatening. It didn’t give the slightest hint of danger or foreboding, yet this was the very place where fate and water had swept her away into another life. Everything about her had changed in this very spot. This bridge and this site didn’t bring back any welcome feelings.

  “Come on, let’s go,” she told Georgia.

  They continued to drive down the winding road for another couple of miles while Jacey stared at the river that ran alongside it. The river that almost swallowed her.

  “We’ve been too far. There’s nothing down here. Are you sure that was the bridge?” Georgia asked. “You could be confused.”

  “I’m not confused. I am absolutely sure that was the bridge,” Jacey said.

  Nearly three miles after Jacey began driving, they saw the first house.

  “Finally,” Georgia said. “Who would want to live back here, cut off from civilization?”

  “I think it’s wonderful,” Jacey said. “Just smell that air.”

  Georgia wrinkled her nose. “I think that’s cow manure or chicken poop.”

  “You are so cynical,” Jacey said, secretly thankful that Georgia was taking her mind off the angst she felt after seeing the bridge. “Come on, let’s go see if anyone’s home.”

  “I think I hear banjos,” Georgia said. “I’m staying in the car.”

  “I know you’re afraid of the chickens, Georgie,” Jacey said, laughing. “It’s okay. You can stay inside.”

  “Look at them,” Georgia said. “Necks all stretched out, sharp little noses just waiting to peck my eyes out, weird eyes on each side of their heads. I mean, how do they see? East and west at the same time? There literally is not enough money in the world to make me get out of this car.”

  Jacey laughed at Georgia powering up the window and pulling her T-shirt up around her face. “Suit yourself, but if I find somebody to talk to, I may be awhile.”

  “Take your time,” Georgia said. “I’ll just be here. In the car. With both my eyes intact.”

  Jacey walked gingerly around the chickens pecking the ground near her feet. She called out, “Hello? Anybody home?”

  “In the back,” came the voice from behind the house.

  Jacey walked around the house until she saw an old woman picking berries from a vine on the fence.

  “Hello?” Jacey said again.

  “Well, hello there,” the woman said. “Are you lost?”

  “No, ma’am,” Jacey said. “Well, I don’t really know where I am, but I’m not lost either.”

  The woman wiped her hands on her apron and laughed. “Well, now you have my attention.” She bent over slowly to pick up her berry bucket, and Jacey rushed over to her side.

  “Here,” Jacey said. “Let me help.” She picked up the bucket and matched the woman’s measured steps. “My name is Jacey Lang,” she said. “I’m hoping you can help me find a house around here.”

  “Nice to meet you, Jacey,” she said. “My name is Mrs. Ernestine Harrison. Whose house are you looking for?”

  “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Harrison,” Jacey said. “But that’s just it . . . I’m not sure whose house I’m looking for. Well, I am, but I don’t know who lives there now. Or if the house is even still standing.”

  “I see,” she said. “And Ernestine will do just fine.”

  Jacey smiled. “Okay, Mrs. Ernestine.”

  “Well, somebody raised you right,” she said. “Young folks these days have no respect for old folk.”

  “My mama would skin me alive if I didn’t respect my elders,” Jacey told her.

  “Then somebody raised your mama right too.” Ernestine patted her hand.

  They reached the back porch, and Jacey held out her hand to help the woman climb the wooden stairs.

  “Whew,” Ernestine said as she sat down in the rocker. “That gets harder every year,” she said. “But I sure don’t want the berries to waste. My Ebben used to love a berry cobbler. He been gone near about ten years now, and every spring I make at least one berry pie just so he knows I still think about him. Some folks probably think that’s kinda crazy. But I sure do miss him.” She took the corner of her apron and dabbed her eyes.

  “I’m so sorry,” Jacey said. “Was Ebben your husband?”

  “For sixty-five years,” she said. “Every night I think, The Lord gonna take me tonight and I’ll see my Ebben again. But every morning I keep waking up.” She laughed—cackled, really. “But I guess the Lord knows what he doing.”

  Jacey smiled.

  “That’s enough about me. I’m just an old woman,” Ernestine said. “Now tell me about this house you’re looking for.”

  “Well,” Jacey said, “I don’t know if you remember this or even if you knew about it, but there was a flood last year, right around here. And I thought maybe—”

  “Did I know about it?” Ernestine interrupted. “Like to killed us all! Water came right up to this porch, it did. I was scared to death. So much loss . . .” She looked out across her yard. “Nothin’ like that had ever happened around here. That sweet little girl just down the road died in that flood. The water just swept that house away. She always took care of me, brought those boys to visit. The big one mowed my grass and the little ones loved to gather eggs . . .” She dabbed her eyes with her apron again.

  Jacey felt her own eyes fill with tears. She was talking about Lillian and her boys. She knew it even before she asked. Her hands began to shake.

  “That baby boy died with his mother,” Mrs. Ernestine continued. “Almost broke my heart in two, I tell you. I’ve been so worried about those boys I don’t know what to do. I tried to take them, but you know those State folks don’t want no old woman raising kids.”

  Jacey took Mrs. Ernestine’s hand in hers. “That’s why I’m here,” she said. “I’m trying to find the boys. I was on the roof with them.”

  Mrs. Ernestine’s hands covered her mouth. “It was you?” she asked. “It was you?”

  “Yes, ma’am. It was me. I’m looking for the boys. I’d like to see them.”

  “Those babies asked for you,” she said. “Jacey, you said? Yes, that’s it! I got my good friend at the sheriff’s office to take me down to the hospital to see them, and they told me about you. They asked me to ‘find Jacey.’ Lord, this is a miracle as sure as I’m sitting here!”

  Jacey was crying by now, too, her heart aching for the boys and for this woman. “Are you sure it was me they asked for?” she said. “Do you know where they are? How I can find them?”

  “Oh, I’m sure,” she said. “They wanted you. And I know just where they are. I make my friend check on them every week. But those boys aren’t happy, I can tell you that.” She leaned forward and put her hand on the side of Jacey’s face. “This is a miracle, Jacey,” she said again. “How did you find an old woman in the woods?”

  Jacey put her hand on top of Mrs. Ernestine’s, still resting on her face. “I’m not sure.” She smiled, although she was still crying. “Somehow I . . . knew where to go. Is the house still there? Can I go look at it?”

  “Weren’t nothing left of it,” Mrs. Ernestine said. “It broke apart in the floodwater and washed away. Weren’t nothing more than a shack anyway.”

  Jacey was disappointed. She had wanted to see the house, her refuge in the storm, thinking it might bring the closure she still needed. But it wasn’t meant to be.

  “You just thank the good Lord you were all off that roof before the house fell apart,” Mrs. Ernestine said. “I don’t think nary a
one of you would’ve survived it.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Jacey said. “You are probably right.”

  They heard screaming, and both turned their heads to see Georgia running up the back steps, chickens nipping at her heels.

  “These freaking chickens are trying to kill me!” she said, a short but piercing scream escaping her lips every few seconds.

  Mrs. Ernestine looked at Jacey. “Does she belong to you?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Jacey laughed.

  “God help you.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Colin sat in the kitchen of the home he grew up in and watched his mother prepare tea.

  He checked his watch again. He wanted to be done with all things Jennings Construction, and he had no idea why his father insisted on dragging it out. Jasper seemed to thrive on pointless drama, but this time Colin decided enough was enough. He’d called his father and requested this meeting. This time he would tell him face-to-face and be done with it. Starting a new life in Baton Rouge was becoming more and more appealing to him. He found himself actually looking forward to this appointment with his father, a first for him. As soon as it was over, he could be on his way.

  Jasper was late, of course. Anything to exercise power over his son made Jasper happy, even if it was something as insignificant as making him wait. Colin drummed his fingers on the smooth marble counter while he waited.

  His mother poured herself a cup of tea and joined him at the kitchen island. “Are you sure I can’t get you anything?” she asked. “Evie is here. Maybe some of her scones? I know how you enjoy them. I can get her to make some for you.”

  Colin smiled. “No, thank you, Mother,” he said. “I just want to get this over with.” He looked around the kitchen, stark white, sparkling and devoid of life. Much like his parents’ marriage. The comparison wasn’t lost on him. He almost said the words to her but caught himself. No sense in hurting her for no reason. Besides, it wasn’t as though anything was going to change this late in the game.

  “Colin, I am worried about you,” she said. “I have no idea where you live, how you live . . . You don’t come home, and you seldom call. Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” he said, patting her hand. Despite their differences, he loved his mother and didn’t want her to worry about him. “I promise.”

  “Where are you living?” she continued. “Is it safe?”

  He chuckled. “I’m living in my travel trailer,” he said. “It’s safe. Unless a hurricane comes, which might be a problem.”

  “Don’t joke about that,” she said. “I do worry about you, and I wish you’d come home. This house is enormous, and your father would barely even know you were here.”

  “But I would know it,” he said. “Being kept by another person may work for you, but he isn’t going to own me.”

  As soon as the words left his mouth he saw the hurt cross her face.

  “Mother,” he said, feeling very real shame, “that was a terrible thing for me to say. I didn’t mean it. Please forgive me.” He put his hand over hers, but she pulled away.

  “I know what you think about me, Colin,” she said.

  “Mom, I am so sorry—”

  “No, let me finish,” she said.

  Colin remained silent but felt horrible about his callous comment. Sometimes, even now, his anger and resentment reared its ugly head. The last thing he wanted was to direct it toward his mother.

  “As I said,” she began, “I know what you think about me. But in my defense, I am more than what you see. I do more than host a bridge club on Tuesdays. I don’t spend all my time on the phone chatting about this week’s gossip. I don’t just throw dinner parties and bridal showers.” She took a sip of tea and gently placed the cup back in the saucer. “I sit on two boards whose only function is to support cancer research and displaced children. There is no glamour in that, I assure you. It is real work and it is difficult. I do not earn a salary from either, nor would I take one if it were offered. So while I may have a luxurious life that you dislike, I do have a few redeeming qualities.”

  She paused for a moment and looked out the huge window behind the kitchen table. Finally, she turned back to Colin. “Perhaps I made mistakes while raising you. Children don’t come with instruction manuals, and someday, hopefully, you’ll find that out. But I did the best I could. Not only that, I did what I thought was best for you. If I failed, it wasn’t out of indifference. It was out of love. The anger you’ve harbored for so long . . . I thought it would dissolve when you became a member of the clergy, but I can see there is still much of it there. You are supposed to be a beacon for forgiveness, but maybe you should rethink your career decision. Or at least rethink what it really means to be a minister. I don’t know how you can help anyone else when you can’t even help yourself.”

  She got her cup and saucer and left the room, with Colin staring after her.

  Her words were like a slap to his face. Even though she’d said the words quietly, Colin knew she was infuriated. So was he. Not only infuriated, but hurt. He clenched his jaw. He could take most anything from his father, but his mother’s words cut him like a knife. Maybe because on some level, he knew they were true.

  He really did feel like a fraud sometimes when he counseled other people. He felt it in the pit of his stomach when he told other people about the importance of forgiveness. Somehow he couldn’t take his own advice. He had never fully let go of the anger toward his father and certainly hadn’t let go of the resentment. During the first few months of going to church with Julie, he thought he had a handle on his fury . . . until the day he stepped into his father’s office and saw him with that woman. There had been rumors of other women as far back as he could remember, but that day he saw it for himself.

  The truth was, Colin held on to his disappointment and wrath from that day, fused it with his childhood frustrations, and used it as fuel and motive. He grimaced at the conflict churning inside him. Yes, his feelings were wrong, but weren’t they justified? At least in his mind they were. Besides, forgiveness didn’t always mean repairing the relationship. It just meant one’s actions and thoughts weren’t driven by the offense anymore. Right? Even so, Colin couldn’t say with any certainty that was true for him. He rubbed his forehead with his palms. Maybe his mother was absolutely right. He was not only an imposter, but the worst kind of imposter for using God as an excuse.

  He looked at his watch again. Forty-five minutes late. He couldn’t stop the irritation he felt, though only moments before he had chastised himself for feeling it. It was this kind of blatant disregard Jasper had for anyone else’s feelings that powered Colin’s rage. How busy could the man be? He didn’t lift a finger anymore. Somebody else did the work while he sat at his desk and gazed down on his empire from above.

  Colin got up, walked to the sink, and looked outside. The Gulf tossed and roiled much like the thoughts in his head. Should he go after his mother? Tell her on some level she was exactly right about him? He couldn’t just ignore what she’d said, not when it had knocked the breath out of him and visibly upset her.

  He turned and walked from the kitchen to the dining room searching for her. Regardless of how he felt, he didn’t want his relationship with his mother to turn into the same bitter chaos he shared with Jasper. He had to apologize to her.

  “Mother?” he called.

  She didn’t answer.

  “Mother?”

  He walked into the foyer, thinking maybe she had gone outside. Just as he opened the door, Jasper appeared.

  “Finally decided to show up?” Colin asked.

  “Some things can’t be avoided,” Jasper said, hanging his hat on the hall tree.

  “Yeah? Blonde or brunette?” Colin asked. He peered out the front door, still looking for his mother.

  Jasper ignored the jab. “Your mother isn’t outside,” he said.

  “I’ll find her.” Colin closed the heavy stained glass door.

  “I thought you wanted to t
alk,” Jasper said.

  “I need to talk to Mom first,” he said as he climbed the stairs. “I’ll be right back.”

  Colin went to her bedroom and knocked on the door. “Mom?” When she didn’t answer he knocked again. “Mom?”

  Finally, he opened the door slowly and saw her teacup and saucer on the floor. He swung the door open and saw her on the floor too.

  He rushed to her side. “Mom? Mom?” he said frantically. “Dad, call 911!” he shouted.

  He grabbed her wrist and felt for a pulse. She was alive, but her heartbeat was very slow. And she wasn’t responding to his voice. He heard Jasper running up the stairs.

  “What? What happened? What did you do?” Jasper crouched down to his wife’s side.

  “What did I do?” Colin said.

  “Did you upset her? What did you say?” Jasper rocked his unconscious wife back and forth in his arms.

  “Did you call 911?” Colin asked, ignoring the question.

  “Yes,” Jasper said in a sharp tone. “Colin, what did you say to her?” he demanded again.

  “I don’t remember . . . We were just talking,” Colin said, feeling much like the small child who’d carelessly broken the window in this very room with a baseball years ago.

  “She has a heart condition,” Jasper said, still gently rocking back and forth. “She didn’t want you to know.”

  “What? Since when? Why didn’t she want me to know? I would’ve—”

  “You would’ve what?”

  Colin didn’t answer. The hot shame he felt slowly permeated his body. Had he caused this?

  “What can I do?” Colin said, feeling helpless as he stared at his mother, still and pale.

  “Aren’t you a praying man?” Jasper asked, his voice cracking.

  Colin nodded his head.

  “Then pray.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Ernestine Harrison meant what she said. The “friend” she had at the sheriff’s office was the sheriff himself.

  Harrison County Sheriff Roger Jefferson was at Mrs. Ernestine’s home exactly one hour after she called him. Before he arrived, Mrs. Ernestine told Jacey and Georgia all about Roger and how the two of them had become close friends.