Islands

by Anne Rivers Siddons

  She kissed me on the cheek and straightened up.

  “Let’s go down and I’ll make you some tea and put a good splash of rum in it. And I’ll have some myself. We’ll all have some.”

  I hugged her. Her bones felt as light as balsa wood.

  “I should be comforting you,” I said. “What was I thinking of?”

  “You were thinking of Charlie, and that’s a great comfort,” she said.

  The sunset was graying out and the air was chilling, and I got up to follow her downstairs, to where light and warmth and safety waited. Just then Lewis and Henry poked their heads out into the twilight, and came up onto the widow’s walk. I pressed Lewis’s hand.

  “I’m going on down,” I said. “You all stay with Camilla for a while.”

  I stopped on the third step down and looked back up. They stood together, Lewis and Henry and Camilla, as they had stood so often from childhood on, and the men had their arms around her. She was looking into their faces, one and then the other, and talking softly. Comforting them, as she had always done. We had all been greedy for her comfort, and careless with it. I wondered if she would ever accept succor from us. We would have to think of ways to offer it obliquely.

  She was staying at the beach house until Thursday, the day after Charlie’s memorial service and the reception at Lila and Simms’s. No one could move her on that, nor would she let any of us stay the night with her.

  “It gives me a breather,” she said. “It’s the last time in a long time I’ll be able to just…be. There’s too much to be done when I do come back to town. You can all come out in the daytime, if you want to, but not at night. I’m doing some writing, and that’s when I write best.”

  When we pressed her to tell us what she was writing, she would say only, “Remembrances. Notes to people. Lists of stuff. The life stories of the Scrubs. Dark tales of passion and sin and redemption. Let me be or I’ll make some of the great villains of literature out of all of you.”

  So we let her be. I do not think there was a one of us who, caught in the web of our everyday “outside” lives, did not think of her often that week, seeing her, perhaps, in sunlight and firelight and in the close black of night, writing, writing, writing, always with the sound of the sea in her ears. For myself, I could not see her doing anything at all, merely sitting in the wicker rocker beside the fire, her hands folded in her lap, waiting, as if to be filled up.

  On the day of Charlie’s memorial service at St. Michael’s, cold rain lashed the city. Downtowners accustomed to walking to St. Michael’s drove or had themselves driven, and traffic around the intersection of Meeting and Broad Streets, always slow, was at a near standstill. It is seldom that you hear a car horn in downtown Charleston, unless the car has an out-of-state tag, much less in the vicinity of St. Michael’s. But Charlie’s big day got under way to an anthem of exasperated horns.

  “What can you expect from an outsider?” Lewis grinned, as we ran through the rain from an illegal parking space on King Street. Lewis had brazenly put his physician’s permit on the windshield. We were sheltered by an immense green-and-yellow golf umbrella that had been left in the Range Rover by a forgotten guest. It was all I could find as we left the house. Somehow it seemed all of a piece with the blaring horns.

  Many Charlestonians, particularly downtowners, have had their coming ins and goings out and all their great life rituals in between at St. Michael’s since 1752. It is a graceful and dignified building, reminiscent of and perhaps inspired by the London city churches of Sir Christopher Wren and James Gibbes. Its glowing paneling and simple leaded windows let in a light that is warming and somehow exalting. I have been to many services there, although we attend church, when we do, at Grace Episcopal, which is a short walk from our house. Weddings, christenings, funerals, and sometimes the chamber music concerts during the two weeks of Spoleto…I have sat many times with Lewis in the red-cedar box pew that his family has occupied for two hundred years.

  “Who sits in it now that none of you come here much?” I asked him once.

  “Tourists from Newark and Scranton,” he said. “I specified it in writing. Costs them a bundle.”

  But in all the times I have been in St. Michael’s, I have seldom seen anyone remotely resembling a tourist. Not at a service. If there are unfamiliar faces in the congregation, they are apt to be relatives or guests of the communicants. There are no rules about it, of course. That is simply the way it is. The few visitors who venture in for a service or a concert are generally viewed as the sort of people who will appreciate the beauty and resonance of the old church. The shorts and halters and flip-flops that are the hallmark of the wandering downtown tourist, even in St. Michael’s churchyard adjacent to the church, are not often seen in the sanctuary. I think that St. Michael himself, who is depicted in a great Tiffany window slaying the dragon, would step down and smite them smartly.

  I have always loved the sensory particulars of St. Michael’s. Its steeple, slender and white and topped with a gilt ball, is visible from the places I frequent most: my office, the Bull Street house, the beach house. It is a presence in my life. It has a living history that I love. It was painted black during the Revolutionary and Civil Wars so that it would not be visible to the vessels bombarding the city from the harbor. It has survived earthquakes, fires, and, in my time, Hurricane Hugo. Once, at a party for the benefactors of Queens Hospital, I met an aristocratic old German who said, when I asked him if he had visited the city before, “Not precisely. But I have seen the steeple of St. Michael’s through a periscope.” Whether or not he was to be believed, it made my blood cool for a moment, the thought of that silent black leviathan lying deep in the harbor waters, its great-stalked eye fixed implacably on us.

  The bells of St. Michael’s have lifted my heart for many years, at noontime and sunset. Their bronze song can be heard all over downtown. They have been stolen by the British, buried in Columbia during the Civil War, shipped back to Whitecastle to be recast twice. On this day of autumn rain and wind, they rang sweetly for Charlie Curry. I knew that it must be a great comfort to Camilla and Charlie’s family and friends, and I know that it was to me, that their voices lifted as truly for an Indiana outlander as they did for the departing souls of the original families. I remembered something that Fairlie had said once, in some pet or other over one of the hampering Charleston mores, “No matter where you go or who you are, and no matter where you want to fetch up, Charleston will get you in the end.”

  But it had not, after all, gotten Charlie. Perhaps St. Michael’s held the city’s collective memories of him, but the green Atlantic of the island had his body and essence. It was not, I thought, such a bad split.

  The church was packed with quiet people who nodded and smiled politely at me and more warmly at Lewis, and gave Camilla small hugs and cheek-brushing kisses. They smelled of wet wool and lavender and somehow of incense, though I doubted that the church burned it anymore. An odor, perhaps, of sanctity. After the service, which was as beautiful and graceful as the old church and as anchored in years, the congregation moved up the aisles and out onto the Tuscan portico. Camilla and her sons and their wives and children stood there to receive their soft murmurs of sympathy and love. Camilla seemed a perfect part of them there in her black suit and pearls, taken back into the bloodstream of the city, moving, as if oiled, to the cadences and rhythms that, I knew, I would never hear. Somehow it made me uneasy. What if she simply stayed?

  But as her sister Lydia’s town car glided to the curb to pick them up for the short trip to the Battery, she turned and made a little circle in the air with her thumb and forefinger.

  “One down,” she said almost under her breath. We all smiled. We had her still.

  Lila and Simms’s house is a three-story brick Charleston single, with accents of the Greek revival that was popular in the early nineteenth century, when it was built. It has white-railed piazzas on all three floors, and a rose-arched doorway off the street and into the ground-fl
oor piazza, where the official front door is. It is one of the most beautiful houses on East Battery, though not so grand as some built later and iced like wedding cakes with architectural details from two dozen centuries. The houses on the Battery, East and South, are a stunning sight, looking as they do over the great seawall or through the huge oaks of White Point Gardens, at the Ashley River or straight out to sea. The Battery is what most people think of when they think of Charleston, and it may be one of the most photographed streets in the world.

  It is also one of the most tourist thronged. Even on this day of cold, sheeting rain, flocks of umbrellaed and anoraked visitors slogged along the broken old sidewalks, looking alternately at the sodden guidebooks clutched in their hands and up at the houses. People going into Lila and Simms’s house had to park blocks away, or maneuver around knots of people standing still and staring as they entered the piazza door, hoping for a glimpse of the fabled garden and old Charlestonians in situ. For some reason, these sightings are greatly prized. I remember once, just before rounding the brick wall onto Bull Street with a load of clothes for the dry cleaner in my arms, hearing a small group talking on the other side of the wall.

  “It’s funny that you never see any of the natives,” a shrill female Long Island voice said. Just then I came into the street and nodded as I put the clothes in my car.

  “Oh, there’s one,” the same voice announced.

  “Nativus horribilis,” I murmured to myself, driving away and seeing them in the rearview mirror, staring after me.

  One of the Howard house’s unique features, much chronicled, is the double drawing room on the third floor. The two great receiving spaces are joined by doors that fold back to allow a ballroom-size vista, which is what I suspect it was originally used for. Simms and Lila had few balls, except for their daughter Clary’s debut, and so, except for house tours, the third floor was rarely used. The Howards lived in the second-floor library and the little sitting room off the kitchen, where a fireplace and a TV hid. In warm weather, living was done on the first- and second-floor piazzas, shaded from the street by a brick wall shrouded in roses and Confederate jasmine vines.

  I had been in the first- and second-floor rooms and on the piazzas and in the garden many times, but I had seldom seen the drawing rooms polished and glowing with candlelight and ablaze with flowers, or alive with people. It looked, in the dim light from the cascading rain at the tall windows, as it must have looked in the days of its original glory, during Charleston’s golden age of balls and receptions and great, nine-course dinners. A long Hepplewhite table had been set up in the center of the second room, laden with Lila’s grandmother’s thin, translucent old Haviland and heavy Revere tea and coffee services. A huge ham glistened at one end, and at the other, a towered, tiered silver dish held little biscuits with ham and beef tenderloin and deviled crab. The enormous silver epergne in the center, which had belonged to one of their ancestors from the time of the lords proprietor, I forget which, spilled sugared fruit and magnolia leaves and pink and green poinsettias. Christmas, I thought. Of course. It was almost Christmas. There was every succulent dish that Charleston claimed as its own, including the ubiquitous shrimp and grits and the crab cakes and the platters of little roasted doves. Charlie would have loved the food, I thought. I didn’t know how he would have felt about the gathering itself. It was studded with people who, I knew, had never thought him a suitable match for Camilla, but had been far too polite ever to say so. But Charlie had known, I was sure, who they were.

  “I’ll bet he’s fuming right now,” I said to Lewis.

  “I’ll bet he’s not,” Lewis grinned. “I’ll bet he’s hovering around the molding waiting for some old lady to choke on a dove bone.”

  “What are you two laughing about?” Camilla said, coming up to us and linking her arms in ours. She was smiling.

  “Charlie,” I said. “How are you holding up, sweetie?”

  “Tolerably well,” she said, and I thought she was. There had been many tears at the memorial service, but as far as I knew, none of them had been Camilla’s. She shone like a beacon in the great gilded room, and people flocked around her as if to a fire.

  We took cups of Simms’s grandfather’s light dragoon punch from a dignified waiter passing them on a silver tray and went out onto the piazza. From this top one you could see, as Lewis said, as far as Madagascar. The wind whipped the tops of the wet palms, and the mist from the rain stung our faces, but we did not turn to go in. We stood with linked arms, drinking punch and looking at the amplitude of the sea and sky around us.

  “ ‘Sea-drinking city,’ ” Lewis said. “Josephine Pinckney wrote that years and years ago. I’m never in one of these old houses that I don’t think of it. I had it hanging somewhere in our house; I don’t remember where.”

  Lewis’s house was farther down the street, toward the turn onto South Battery. You could not see it from where we stood. I was glad. I really think he was, too. But still, to look at this warm sea every day, to breathe its breath, to hear its voice…

  “Do you miss seeing the ocean every day?”

  “I see a better one every weekend,” he said.

  “It’s the same ocean.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “Let’s go home,” I said. “I have a great desire to watch TV in bed.”

  We took the elevator down to the first floor, where Lila stood greeting latecomers and saying good-bye to others. She turned to us, and all of a sudden I really saw her, saw Lila Howard herself outside the context of the island and the beach house, saw her as clearly as if I were seeing her for the first time. I almost gasped. When had she gotten so thin? Where had the hollows in her smooth cheeks come from, and the smudges under her eyes? She looked like a woman haunted. Somehow I knew that it was not merely grief for Charlie. Dear God, was she ill?

  I put my arm around her.

  “You okay?” I said. “It was a perfectly beautiful send-off, and Camilla is so grateful. Charlie would be, too. But you look tired to death. You’ve done too much.”

  “No, I wanted to do it,” she said, and smiled, and the sad sorcery faded from her eyes. She was Lila again, in her element, as I had always pictured her.

  “Where’s Simms?” Lewis said. “I want to say good-bye. I owe him a lunch.”

  Her eyes moved away.

  “He’s around,” she said. “I’m going to light into him good for abandoning his guests.”

  “I’ll go find him,” I said. “I’ve got to go to the ladies’ room, anyway. I’ll never make it home through this rain and traffic.”

  “Anny…” Lila’s voice rose, and it sounded flat and thin. I waved at her over my shoulder and dived into the crowd. It was really rotten of Simms to leave her with door duty.

  The downstairs powder room was mobbed, and a cluster of dark-clad women stood around it.

  I really can’t wait, I thought, and then remembered that there was a tiny, dilapidated bathroom at the end of the piazza, next to the little house where the gardener kept his tools. I trotted toward it. The long sisal runner on the brick floor was sodden; my feet squelched as I went. I reached the door and put my hand on the knob to open it.

  “Go ahead,” Simms’s voice, thick and slow, came from inside. “Nobody will see us. Nobody ever comes to this bathroom. Take them off, love. I want to see all of you. I want to touch you all over….”

  “Simms, wait, now…,” a woman’s voice said. It was a young voice, small and thin. It did not have the downtown Charleston cadences, the little lilt. The woman was not anyone I knew. I did not think any of us would know her.

  I stood stock-still, my ears ringing, my heart pounding sickly. I turned and fled back down the piazza and into the house, trying to arrange my mouth into a smile, feeling a rictus bloom there instead.

  “No luck,” I chirped. “Do tell him good-bye for us. And we’ll see you soon….”

  I did not say “next weekend at the beach house.” I could not make my mouth form the wo
rds. Lila looked at me silently.

  “I’ll tell him you said good-bye,” she said. Her eyes were dark and flat. She knew, then. How long? How long had Simms been sneaking into bathrooms with this or other young women? I hated him suddenly. Grief poured in after the hate.

  “Take care of yourself. We love you,” I said, and hugged Lila, and we went out into the rain.

  “Don’t you feel well?” Lewis said to me on the drive home. I was huddled against the door of the car, my arms wrapped around me. Despite the roaring of the heater, I could not get warm.

  “Just a cold trying to start, I think,” I said. “I’m going to make some hot tea and lie down. You want some?”

  He didn’t. “But I’ll bring you up a bowl of chili and we’ll have it on trays,” he said. “No wonder you’re cold; we’ve been wet half the day.”

  I did not answer. Upstairs I skinned off my clothes and got into a sweatshirt and pants and pulled the covers up to my chin, and turned off my bedside light. When he finally came up, I was asleep at last, drowned in the thick, hot sleep that grief or shock brings.

  I woke in the dead of night, in that stopped, still place where nothing moves, time does not go forward, light does not come. I felt literally sick with pain and fear and loss. Charlie’s death could not destroy the web of the Scrubs, I thought. But the acid of Simms’s betrayal might. Finally I got up and sat in the wing chair by the window, and cried. When light finally crept in around the bottom of the blinds, I was done with crying.

  I didn’t tell Lewis what I had heard the day before. I never did tell him. Just before dawn I heard Camilla’s voice as plainly as if she had spoken: “The center will hold.”

  And after all, through all the years after that day, nothing really happened with them, at least nothing you could speak of. If Simms spent more and more time away from the beach house, well, we knew that the business was expanding rapidly all over the country and even abroad. If Lila was quieter and thinner, if she spent a great deal of time sitting beside Camilla, who often squeezed her hand or teased her into laughter, well, they had been born on the same street, gone to school together, been in each other’s weddings. The affection between them was nothing new. Only I knew, as surely as I have ever known anything, that Camilla knew about Simms, and had long borne Lila up, like a raft, and would continue to do so.