In truth, I was glad of the company. Gaynelle’s matter-of-fact recountings of her hardscrabble days—sitting for hours in Medicaid clinics waiting for this test or that doctor, always foraging for money for the truck or the bike, fretting over paying the day care center where she left Britney until five, pursuing her ex-husband through the courts for the child support that was now three years overdue—were for me a window on a world that I had hardly known existed. Well, to be honest, I did know; I remembered the tattered lives of the mothers of my small clients at the agency, but it had been a very long time since that had been real to me. Gaynelle was totally without self-pity, although often full of anger at some uncaring social agency, or “that sorry son of a bitch.” I came to admire her enormously. She lived constantly on the edge, and managed in spite of the rigors and strictures to live rather well. Her casual courage sometimes shamed me. Camilla was utterly fascinated by her. To her, Gaynelle led an exotic sort of gypsy life that had little to do with reality.
“I’m going to put her in a book of some sort,” she said, scribbling away one afternoon after Gaynelle left. She was writing in her notebooks more than ever now, and seemed more alive and engaged than I had seen her for some time.
I overheard Gaynelle ask her one morning, “Are you writing a book? You’re never without that notebook.”
“I might, at that,” Camilla said, smiling.
“Put me in it?”
“I wouldn’t dream of leaving you out.”
At the end of November, Gaynelle came roaring up on the pink Harley on a Friday afternoon after she should have been off, accompanied by a man on a monstrous black bike with an inordinate amount of silver piping and tubing showing. It was covered with dust from the road into the creek, but you could tell it was a new bike. The man himself was small—shorter than Gaynelle—and completely bald, with a great blond beard spilling over his leather jacket and a kerchief tied around his head. He wore black goggles; it was impossible to tell how old he was. Behind him, riding pillion, a little girl in full black child-sized leather regalia waved and squealed. I could see carrot red curls spilling out of her miniature helmet and saw that her small boots were sequined. Without a doubt the boyfriend and the daughter of Gaynelle Toomer.
Gaynelle brought them up to the front door, and I opened it to let them in. The last of the low winter sun was glinting on the creek, and there was a lurid smear in the west that promised a spectacular sunset. Gaynelle prodded them before her into the living room like a teacher with recalcitrant children on a field trip. They removed their goggles, and then I could tell that the boyfriend was years older than Gaynelle, maybe forty. He had mild blue eyes and a nice smile through all the hair. The little girl was so precociously beautiful and so aware of it that she almost made you grimace.
“This is my boyfriend, T. C. Bentley,” Gaynelle said. “Bentley Honda? And this is my little princess, Britney, who is just as sweet and talented as she is pretty. Britney, what do you say to Mrs. Aiken?”
The child, the mass of her red hair flaming much as Fairlie’s had done, made a stiff little curtsy, nearly toppling over, and said, “Nicetomeetcha.”
She tossed her head, causing her hair to fall over one eye, and gave me a smile that was clearly meant to be seductive. I thought she had on lipstick.
She was the sort of child who always made me wince inwardly with distaste, but something about her tickled me.
“Pleased to meet you, too, Britney,” I said. “What’s your talent?”
“I play the juice harp,” she piped.
“Britney, I keep telling you, it’s a harmonica. I don’t want to hear Jew’s harp again,” Gaynelle said. Britney rolled her eyes at me, and I laughed.
“Will you play for me sometime?”
“I could play now. My juice…my harmonica is in Mama’s purse.”
“Not today,” Gaynelle said, smoothing the red curls. “T. C.’s gon’ take us to Gilligan’s tonight for fried shrimp, and you’ve got to get a bath and change your clothes. T. C., Mrs. Aiken is—was—married to the doctor that fixed Britney’s foot.”
“It’s an honor to meet you, ma’am,” T. C. Bentley said. “That was one fine thing he did for that little girl.”
He was soft-spoken, and looked down as he spoke. A shy biker?
They were turning to leave when Henry drove up in his truck. He did not come in, and I looked past them on the porch to see what kept him. He was squatting on his haunches, running his thin surgeon’s fingers over the black bike with the reverence a pilgrim would accord the grail. T. C. Bentley walked out and squatted beside him. I could see that they shook hands, and were talking, but I could not hear what they said.
“That’s T. C.’s Rubbertail,” Gaynelle said. “He just got it last month. It’s completely restored. He loves it better than he ever will me. Looks like Dr. McKenzie kind of likes it, too.”
Presently she and the child and T. C. Bentley roared away into the falling dark, and Henry came slowly into the house, looking back at their retreating dust. His cheeks were pink with cold or pleasure or both, and his silver hair fell over one eye.
“He’s going to bring a bike for me and let me ride with them one day soon,” he said. “God, I wonder if I remember how? He seems like a nice guy. The kid’s a little minx, though, isn’t she?”
“Did she put the moves on you?”
“Yep. Or what passes for moves to a seven-year-old. She’s going to be a handful, if she isn’t already.”
“I kind of liked her,” I said. “She’s a tough little cookie. Takes after her mama.”
Henry brought Camilla over for dinner. We were having one of Gaynelle’s elegant chicken potpies, and the smell of it warming in the oven curled out into the living room as we sat before the fire. Henry told Camilla about T. C. Bentley and his wondrous motorcycle, and about riding with the club.
Camilla’s serene face blanched.
“Oh, Henry, no,” she said. “I can’t bear to think of you tearing all over John’s Island on one of those things. I’d die of heart failure if you were late coming home. You hear so much about wrecks—”
“Camilla, I rode that Indian of mine like a banshee all over three states. I was pretty good. I think it’s like a bicycle; you don’t really forget how.”
“Henry, promise me—”
“No promises, Camilla,” he said gently. “I promise to be careful, but I won’t promise not to ride it.”
She looked at him silently and inclined her head in assent, and then it was time to take the potpie out of the oven.
Around the end of the first week in December we found that we could no longer ignore the blitzkrieg that was Christmas. Trees were for sale at every rural crossroads. Used-car lots on James Island were forested with them. Jaycees begged for toys for tots. When I drove to work on Gillon Street, the palm trees on Broad Street blazed with Christmas lights, and in the old downtown, magnolia wreaths were blooming on every door. At the Rural Center, the Bi-Lo aisles were perilous with stacked displays of lights and balls and hideous plush toys and banners proclaiming Butterball turkeys and canned yams. Henry did not mention it, but I knew that he saw the same things. We did not talk about Christmas in Charleston proper. Camilla did not ask about it.
But I knew that it loomed in their minds, as it did in mine. The ghosts of holidays past were powerful. Our last Christmas dinner at the beach lingered on my tongue. The toasts still rang in my ears. The edgy pageant of Lila and Simms repeating their vows before the fire bloomed behind my eyes. The glorious fireworks on New Year’s Eve, and then the shock of Fairlie and Henry announcing their retirement to Kentucky…
They started something rolling, I thought. They opened us up and let something in. The voodoo started then.
No. I wanted nothing of the holidays this year.
Apparently no one else did, for Christmas drew closer and closer, and still no one mentioned it. Say its name aloud, folklore has it, and the demon will be summoned to you.
Simms and Lila told us, on a weekend in mid-December, looking rather shamefaced, that they had decided to have Christmas in Charleston this year. Clary and the grandchildren had begged. Please, wouldn’t we come and share it with them? We’d all forgotten how grand Christmas in Charleston could be.
It was a fatal rupture, and we all knew it. We looked at each other, and then Camilla said, “What I’d really love to do is stay here and have a very quiet Christmas. It’s a time for remembering. Henry and Anny don’t need any commotion on their first Christmas…alone. Why not just let us old widows and widower have one final orgy of remembering?”
I could not suppress a gasp, and I saw Henry’s face redden. We stared at Camilla. It was so unlike her to be insensitive that I thought perhaps I had heard wrong. Lila and Simms nodded and looked away, embarrassed.
“We’ll be sure to make it for New Year’s Eve,” Lila said. But I knew that they wouldn’t. Their bodies might be present on the creek now and then, but their hearts had flown back to Charleston. Was it the end of the Scrubs? No. That had happened sometime long ago, while we were not looking, but there remained a powerful bond between Henry and Camilla and me. I could not put my finger on what it was.
When the Howards had gone, Camilla said, “That was awful of me. I don’t know what got into me. I think I was mad at them and just wanted to sting them a little. Forgive me?”
“Of course,” I murmured. Who had ever failed to forgive Camilla?
“Listen,” she said a day or two later. No one had mentioned Christmas again. “I’ve been so absorbed in my own wants that it never occurred to me that either or both of you might want to be with your families at Christmas. If that’s so, it’s perfectly okay with me. I’ll rent a dozen adult videos and pile into bed with a gallon of Häagen-Dazs.”
“No, I’ll be here,” Henry said. “Nancy and the children are going to her in-laws. I’d rather spend the day at the periodontist’s.”
I don’t have any family, not really, not close, I did not say.
And of course, neither Henry nor I would have dreamed of leaving Camilla alone. We still had made no Christmas plans when Gaynelle came for the last time before Christmas.
“Where’s your tree?” she wailed. “Where’s the wreath and stuff? Where are Mr. and Mrs. Howard?”
I said, “They went home for Christmas. I guess the rest of us are just not ready for home yet.”
“Isn’t this home?” Gaynelle said.
I flushed with shame. Gaynelle lived from paycheck to paycheck, in a cinder-block apartment building. It must be inconceivable to her that anyone had the riches of another home to go to.
After she had left, I thought, We do have homes. We all do. And this is not them.
I said something of the sort at dinner. Camilla’s eyes filled with tears. “It is for me, now,” she said. “I had hoped it would come to be for both of you, like we planned. All of us together.”
“Oh, Camilla,” I said, reaching over and squeezing her hand. Henry smiled.
On a late foggy-gray afternoon with Christmas only two days away, T. C.’s black Rubbertail belched into the drive, followed by Gaynelle and Britney in Gaynelle’s old truck. The truck wore a lopsided wreath on its grill, and the Rubbertail was strung with tinsel. The truck’s bed was covered with a bright red cloth of some sort.
“Uh-oh,” Henry said from the window. “Elves at eleven o’clock.”
They burst into Camilla’s house bearing strings of lights and ropes of glitter and fresh pine boughs smelling as if they had just been cut from the woods. Gaynelle led the procession lugging a great basket covered with a white cloth. T. C. followed, struggling with three hideous small white metallic trees, whose kindred I had seen all month at the BI-LO. Britney brought up the rear dressed in a short red velvet skirt trimmed with dingy fake fur, twirling a glittering baton and singing “Here Comes Santa Claus” in a grating, whiny treble. I remember thinking that it was a good thing she had the juice harp to fall back on.
“There’s no way I’m going to let y’all sit out here by yourselves with no Christmas,” Gaynelle said. “It’s a hard time, the first Christmas you’re by yourself. I remember how it was when Randy took off and left us, just before Christmas. I’m not taking no for an answer. You all just sit still and let us put a few things around. You’ll be surprised what a difference it makes.”
And so we sat, Henry and I smiling helplessly, Camilla rolling her eyes, while Gaynelle and T. C. and Britney set up the dreadful metallic trees and strung lights on them, piled fresh greens on the mantelpieces, put white electric drugstore candles in every front window, tacked a silver-and-blue metallic wreath on the front door, and hung huge, gaudy felt stockings over the hearth. Gaynelle’s pièce de résistance was a plastic Nativity scene that she set up on the old William and Mary gateleg table in front of Camilla’s window. Jesus, Joseph, and Mary, and the lumpen camels, were bubble-gum pink.
“Doesn’t do to forget what Christmas is about,” she said.
When it was all done, they settled themselves on sofa and chairs and looked around, pleased with their handiwork. As a matter of fact, I was, too. The tasteful room exploded with vulgar vitality; it reminded me of the dime-store Christmases I had scraped together for my younger siblings, all those years ago. We had loved Christmas then. I felt a powerful surge of nostalgia rising, not, surprisingly, for all the past Scrubs’s Christmases but for those meager earlier ones at home.
“It’s fabulous,” I said to Gaynelle. “It reminds me of when I was a little girl. What a sweetie you are!”
“I picked out the trees!” Britney squealed, wriggling with excitement, and I hugged her.
“I’ve never seen any trees like them,” I said.
They all looked at Henry and Camilla, and Henry smiled and said, “Just what the doctor ordered. It looks great.”
“Really unique,” Camilla murmured.
“Henry, come on out and I’ll take you for a little spin,” T. C. said. Sometime out in the dark of T. C.’s first visit, they had become Henry and T. C.
“You got it,” Henry said, getting up.
“Henry, not this late!” Camilla cried. “It’s one thing to ride a motorcycle on a good day, but in this fog, with night coming on! Please don’t be an idiot.”
We stared.
Her cheeks burned with color.
“It’s okay, Miz Curry,” Britney piped up. “I ride with Mama all the time at night, and T. C., too. They got lights on the bikes.”
Camilla shook her head and smiled. “Oh, go on out and play,” she said. “I’m certainly not your mother. But would you do me the great favor of putting on a hat and scarf?”
In a moment T. C. and Henry, capped and scarfed, were out the door, and in another moment we heard the farting stutter of the Rubbertail kicking into life, and gravel spurting as it roared away. Faintly, I heard the old classic rebel yell that every Southern child learns as soon as he can talk: “Yeeeeeee-Haw!”
I knew it was Henry, and was glad.
I lit the fire in Camilla’s fireplace and said, “I think there’s some hot chocolate around somewhere. It’s instant but it’s better than nothing. And some biscotti.”
“What’s that?” Britney said.
“Italian cookies,” her mother told her.
“Cookies!” Britney yelped, and ran to me and threw her arms around my waist. She tipped her curly head far back and laughed with pleasure. I had forgotten the vinelike tensile strength of a child’s clutch. All the children I had ever lifted or rocked or cuddled at Outreach flooded back to me. Especially I felt the wet, wriggling body of little Shawna, she of the terrible leather boot, the day I had carried her through the warm rain and into Lewis’s office. Until today, I hadn’t touched many other small bodies.
Oh, Lewis, I said silently. It was a mistake about the children. At least I’d have something of you left. At least I’d have someone.
I turned and started briskly for the kitchen, Britney still attached to my thi
ghs. Gaynelle followed, admonishing her daughter to let go. Britney did, dashing around to look at the rest of the house.
“She’s crazy about you,” Gaynelle said. “She doesn’t usually take to people she doesn’t know well, but she sure has to you. So I have a big favor to ask y’all. You can say no in a second if you don’t want to.”
“What is it?” I said apprehensively.
“Well, Britney wants to open her presents over here Christmas morning. I don’t know what it is, maybe because she doesn’t see her grandparents…like I said, it’s perfectly okay if you say no. We’ve got our own tree and all.”
“Well…sure,” I said. I was not able to think of any reason we should not host Britney’s Christmas morning except perhaps that none of us really felt like it. It seemed a small-spirited reason in the face of a child’s joy on Christmas morning.
“I think that would be fun.”
“So listen, I’ll bring over a big Christmas dinner just in case you want to have yours with us at noon. That’s when we always have ours. I got a big turkey all cooked, and cornbread and oyster dressing, and gravy, and collards, and mashed potatoes, and yams with marshmallows. I even made some ambrosia. It’s my mama’s recipe. And T. C. makes these fruitcakes every year that he soaks in bourbon and keeps under a cloth for three months. You all wouldn’t have to lift a finger.”
What could I say? We’d love your dinner but not you? Besides, the thought of the festival day spent with Gaynelle and Britney Toomer and T. C. Bentley, of John’s Island and Bohicket Creek, made my mouth tug up in a grin. Simms and Lila would die.
“Sounds wonderful. I’ll have to check, but I’m sure everybody would love it.”
After they had left and Camilla and I and Henry were sitting before the fire, I told them about Gaynelle’s Christmas plan.
Henry laughed out loud.
“Why not?” he said. “It’s not like we were expected at the yacht club.”
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