by Lisa Samson
She is right though, my paintings from high school—gone! The body of work from college, thankfully, hasn’t arrived yet from UPS. But I’m choosing to look at it this way, like, sometimes it’s just better to put the past behind you. And believe me—believe me—when I tell you, some of those paintings were “ghastly” as Grandy would say. Definitely compositions only a mother could love.
So in the meantime we’re going to have to go stay with Grandy at the medieval monstrosity on Greenway. Speaking of green, that’s what color Mom is at the thought of leaving Hamilton and going back to Stoneleigh House where she grew up. I’ve always liked the place though.
Still, poor Mom. I figure I’ll fling a prayer up to God because only He knows how to get Mom out of this one.
Lark
I SUPPOSE ABSURD THOUGHTS HIT MOST OF US during horrible moments like house fires. But after I located Flannery on the neighbor’s porch, regurgitated, and reacted as I imagine the normal woman reacts when she sees her dear house on fire, I thought, “Man, what’s my brother going to think about this?” Crazy, I know. Bigger worries consumed me just then. But Newly’s superior-looking grin and his normal “God help you, Lark—” prologue that invariably began his verbal missives drifted through the smoke. And even though Newly is an albino, he did far more with the two pair life dealt him than I ever did with the full house it handed me.
I should have been nicer to him when we were little. But his annoying qualities inbred to produce toothless, chinless children in the form of his equally annoying friends. I tried to tell him about Jesus a few years ago, after praying for months and finally building up the nerve. He just looked at me askance and quit calling me after that. Was I wrong? Insensitive? I mean, I pray with people all the time that need Jesus to lift them up, heal them, help them make it through. I thought I knew what I was doing.
But he threw a barb that day. “You need God more than I do, Lark. The way you messed up your life so young.” And then, because the Summerville genes built him in the first place, said, “I’m happy you’ve found what you need. Let’s leave it at that, shall we?”
And yet, despite my fornication with Bradley and the resulting disastrous marriage, despite my quiet existence, I still feel sorry for my brother Newly, CEO of my father’s Fortune 500 company and pride and joy of all who once taught him, bless him, and bless his Mercedes, his striped ties, his Manhattans, and his condo at the Inner Harbor.
However rude her conception, the greatest kid in the world loves me, and I refuse to think Flannery, the love of my life and my reason for living, enjoyed no initial blessing from the Father’s heart. That she was merely an allowance, not a plan, is unacceptable. The theology of it confuses me, so I ignore it and chalk it all up to the fact that God created the world in the first place.
What will Mother say? Probably not much. Mother prides herself on her lack of interference.
All gone. Not that it was much to begin with. But oh, Jesus, my Jesus. It’s all gone. My home is gone.
And it hit hard once more. The previous fleeting thoughts of Newly and Mother tried desperately to pad my brain from reality, but Leslie and Newly Summerville proved inept at such a pitiful task.
The tears dripped quickly, like rushing droplets of heavy rain down a clean windshield, collecting upon each other, rolling, growing, eating each other alive.
Flannery held me as we stared at the rolling flames and just said, “It’s all right, Mom. It’s all right, Mom. Don’t be afraid. I’m right here.”
Leslie
WHAT’S LARKSPUR FEELING RIGHT NOW? Impossible to imagine. Fortune has certainly never smiled upon my daughter as it has upon my son, Newly. And the fact that she has remained single for the past twenty years just aggravates her situation. Well, as my mama down in Charlottesville, God rest her soul, always said, “It only takes one scoundrel to ruin a girl for good.”
Enter Bradley del Champ.
I can’t blame the fellow for zeroing in on Larkspur the way he did. That long, wavy brown hair of hers the color of a glistening caramel. Those serious butterscotch eyes. And nougat skin. Larkspur always appeared so tan and healthy in those days. A choker in an opera-length world, she’s a bit diminutive. A bit diminutive? Well, actually, we even took her to a Hopkins growth specialist years ago and returned with the insightful answer, “She’s just short.”
Well!
That’s what I deserve for sticking with my Charles, I suppose. His mother, even shorter than my daughter, reminded me of an apple dumpling. And sickeningly sweet, to boot. She never cared for me, and I never cared for her, but we both tried to at least act like it for the sake of all involved.
The mystery remains as to how long it took Bradley, tall, blond, and fine looking, to induce my daughter’s moral compromise, but in those days when a girl found herself pregnant, the boy married her. We thought we were doing the right thing. He hailed from a better family than the Summervilles, not as well bred as us Strawbridges, mind you, as my mama, God rest her soul, always reminded me ad nauseam, and certainly Charles and I thought we were doing the right thing. We thought it was the right thing.
Bradley and Larkspur shared so much with their music and all. And his folk rock band experienced little success until Larkspur, a poetic soul, revamped his lyrics and sometimes his melodies and began playing whatever type of keyboard the song needed. She could sing background too. Unfortunately, he seduced the beatnik out of her, his presence magnifying her artistic-sensitive nature, painting over her good roots and stable background like the black goop my groundsman uses to gussy up the driveway.
After Bradley’s final departure, just after Flannery turned two, I think we all breathed a sigh of relief. Bent on spending his yearly trust fund dividends by April on musical instruments, sound equipment, and all those wiry things, Bradley forced poor Larkspur to rely on the money Charles mailed all the way to San Francisco to feed and clothe our granddaughter. Not that we minded supporting Flannery and Larkspur.
Heavens, no!
In fact, I never said a thing about it to her. A woman must keep her pride, and the last thing she needed was a harping mother. Charles and I discussed it more than our marriage could sometimes bear. At least we realized we belonged to the same team.
Well, imagine our relief when we heard the news of Bradley’s demise. I did feel a smidgen of guilt at that. But, naturally, I invited Larkspur and Flannery to move back home to Guilford. Our Greenway Avenue is such a lovely street. And our Stoneleigh House? Definitely the pick of the litter. It still amazes me that I assimilated into city society as well as I did. We’re a tad more genteel in Virginia, mind you. Not that I’d ever say such a thing out loud! Of course not! Mama always told me a lady keeps her mouth shut and never compares herself with others.
Well, Larkspur flatly refused to come back home, but she did return to Baltimore, living in an old carriage house for a while where the good, clean horse smell lingered, and being from horse country, I find that a lovely aroma. Finally, after a year of not visiting or even picking up the phone, she rented to own a little yellow two-bedroom bungalow, two blocks off Harford Road, on Bayonne Avenue, right down the street from a little church-run elementary school where she sent Flannery. Larkspur’s life, a pedagogy of penurious survival, has taught me all sorts of things I never knew: rent-to-own, layaway, and monthly APR financing. Not sure what that one means. I do know the poor thing still pays on a car she totaled four years ago, having let the insurance lapse due to finances. She refuses to accept even one penny from me to pay it off.
Where did I go wrong? She could have been anyone, done anything. She planned on becoming a concert organist, you know. Enter Bradley del Champ, if you please.
The rat.
Regrets. Womanly regrets.
We all have them. In fact, I wonder at times if conception itself gifts us with them. If they lie in wait there in the middle of our ovaries, ready to pounce at our most vulnerable moments.
Larkspur must know I understand ab
out mistakes.
She’s not getting any younger, and I fear her life of loneliness will sidle up unawares, set her on his lap, and bind arms of unbending steel around her midsection in a death grip, then shoot up and fly away with Lark to an unknown planet in the cold, wide universe. Never to return.
Oh my, but I’m waxing emotive today! And so touchy lately too! Just call me Lady Vesuvius. Ever since I started on this new medication—thank you, Dr. Medina, a sadist to be sure—the top of my skull steadily wears away! Toprol, Rocaltrol, and four other prescriptions. Not to mention the Metamucil, the Ensure, the glucosamine, and for good measure and because youth never makes U-turns, a little ginkgo biloba. If you popped me with a pin, a stream of tablets and capsules would fly out with the air!
The simple days of a little Geritol are gone for good, I’d say.
But Larkspur’s coming home! With only the clothes on her body and my Sweet Pea granddaughter at her side. I’m sorry she lost the house. She made her life there on the corner. A paltry life, but one of her own making, which I admire. Running that religious phone service, singing with the Catholics.
Now, I try to be ecumenical with the best of them, but the Catholics? Oh my. What would my parents think about that? Thank God they never lived to see it. I’d wager that Henry VIII got rid of the whole religion for a very good reason, not that I know my history all that well, but someone as memorable as Henry VIII would surely have a good reason for getting rid of an entire religion from my family’s country of origin. And all those statues simply give me the willies. But then, statuary always has, whether it’s St. Joseph or one of those garden nymphs with nary a piece of clothing on their reedy frames.
Lark reminds me of a garden nymph actually—skinny, ill-clad, and scraping along penny to penny unnecessarily. Looking so sad all the time. I’ve tried so hard to uplift my daughter but find myself acting “perky.” I know I wouldn’t find myself at all reassuring. Will I be able to pull her up out of this one? I doubt it. But I have to try.
Antidepressants are much better these days.
Well, no sleep will be forthcoming the rest of the night, so back to work on my photo album. Prisma dragged it out for me several weeks ago and we looked over the photos of Larkspur as a baby. I hate to admit this, but the thing moldered in the dark attic for thirty-five years. Thirty-five years!
What kind of mother am I?
I thanked my lucky stars when I opened up my box of snapshots and they hadn’t grown hair.
I flipped to the page where Larkspur turned four. Oh, the party Charles dreamed up that year. Like something out of a movie. That’s what Charles said he wanted. “Les, I want a carousel, ponies, and clowns.” Charles always got what he wanted, and in a way that the giver was glad to bestow it on him.
Embarrassed me to no end, staging a show like that. Ostentatious, my mama would have said. Garish. Nouveau riche. But now that I look back on the pictures and see the utter expressions of joy on Larkspur’s and Charles’s faces, it made the embarrassment worth it completely.
Flannery
IT IS ALL I CAN DO TO GET HER TO STOP SHAKING. She won’t stop staring at the house. The flames died awhile ago, but the ruins smolder. “Mom? How ’bout if I go get you a cup of warm milk? Mrs. Cahey said to just knock on the kitchen door if we need anything.”
“I don’t know, Flannery.” Her teeth chatter despite the fact that it’s June. “It’s so late. And she probably doesn’t really want us to bother her.”
“In fact, why don’t you sit in their kitchen and I’ll talk to the firemen and take care of things out here.”
She doesn’t respond except to nod, and I go into action. Ushering her into the Caheys’ place, I feel relieved to see a teakettle already on the stove. Mom loves tea. Mrs. Cahey folds Mom in her big, jiggly arms, even though Mom never once initiated a conversation between the two since Mrs. Cahey moved here when I was four. She kisses her forehead. “Tea’s almost done, hon.” And she sits her gently on one of the captain’s chairs swiveling at the head of the kitchen table.
Poor Mom. Living proof that Jim Morrison was right about the whole “people are strange” thing.
Well, anyway, Miss Prisma will sure be glad to see us when we arrive at Stoneleigh House. Someone else will eat her Congo bars besides her and Asil Smitzer. Not that she needs any help in consuming sweets.
I punch my Uncle Newly’s number into my cell phone around one in the morning. Mom is asleep on the Caheys’ brown Colonial-print couch, guys with wheelbarrows and ladies with flowers in their aprons, and I figure I’ll give her a couple more hours to sleep in oblivion.
“Um, hello?” Uncle Newly clears his throat.
“Uncle Newly, it’s Flannery.”
He clears his throat again. “Buddy. Do you realize the time? Are you drunk? Have you no designated driver?” As he speaks his voice slowly inches back to life.
“I’m fine. Mom’s house just burned down.”
“Oh my! You don’t say! Horrible! You don’t say!”
“I do say.”
“How awful.”
Uncle Newly went to Oxford and talks like one of those fancy-pants Englishmen. It drives Grandy crazy! “For heaven’s sake, you’re an American, Newly Summerville!” she says every time she hangs up the phone from one of his calls.
“I say, is she all right? Are you all right?”
“Yes, we’re fine.”
“Well, then, you just called to give the news?”
“Uh-huh.”
Silence. I love making Uncle Newly uncomfortable. He thinks he’s so continental and suave, but how suave can someone that white really be? Can you imagine him on the beach in the south of France?
Yikes.
“Can we come over to your place to sleep tonight?”
“Uh …”
More silence.
“Just kidding!”
Oh, he’s so much fun, Uncle Newly.
“I just thought you’d like to know.”
“Thank you, Buddy. Are you going over to Greenway then?”
“Yeah. I’m sure Prisma is already laying out plates for breakfast.”
“Naturally.”
“So when are we going out for lunch?”
“How about Saturday next?”
“You got it.”
I hear his smile as he finally begins to warm up. It takes awhile with Uncle Newly. If we didn’t love each other so much, I doubt he’d have any contact with the family. He’s always been a great uncle though.
“How about a game of pool afterward?” I ask.
“All right, Buddy. We’ll do that, too.”
“And I’ll wipe up the floor with you, Unc.”
He chuckles.
We say good-bye.
He and mother have the weirdest relationship I’ve ever seen. They haven’t talked in two years, and I don’t think either of them even realizes it.
I know I should be more upset about the house and all, but to be honest I’m happy to see it burn down. Maybe God is finally pushing my mom out into the big wide world.
Leslie
THE SOUND OF THE PHONE AWAKENED ME around 4 A.M. My stars. I fell back asleep!
“Grandy?”
“Sweet Pea?”
“We’re leaving now. We’ll be there in twenty minutes or so.”
“Do you need Asil to come around with the car?”
“No thanks. I’ve got mine.”
“How’s your mother?”
“Like Jell-O.”
I sighed. “Oh dear. I might have guessed.”
“I’d better go.”
“All right, dear. The side door will be unlocked.”
I hurried down to Prisma’s rooms off the kitchen and knocked on the door. The pleasure of Prisma’s company, not to mention her cooking, has belonged to us since before I married Charles fifty years ago. Even older than myself, Prisma lies about her age with the best of us! Truth be told, Prisma is my best friend. Not a soul knows that. Not even Prisma Percy.
So the little house in Hamilton burned to nothing more than a charred pit. Sweet Pea, as I call Flannery—quite a ghastly name despite its literary connotations—said once she heard the smoke alarm screeching she grabbed a few things of her mother’s and her own laptop. The child performed well. Of course she inherited my ability to keep one’s head firmly attached during a disaster.
I’ll never forget the rogue tornado that barreled down on our farm one year when I was fourteen. I had to almost drag my mama down to the cellar by her hair. She cold-shouldered me for a week she was so angry. But that typified Libby Lee Strawbridge, pride as thick as the sole of a dirty old boot.
Ah, but my Charles. He deserves credit as well. Now, that man kept his wits in any situation. I miss him so.
I rapped on the door to Prisma’s quarters, and I heard her shuffle her wide feet into the pair of the gold Daniel Green slippers I had tucked in her stocking last Christmas. I own a pair just like them. “What is it this time, Mrs. Summerville?” she grunted. “Four A.M.? You all right?” The volume of the suede bottoms of her mules soft-shoeing it across the dull wooden floor increased.
“It’s about Larkspur and Sweet Pea.”
The Daniel Greens steamed at full speed now. And the door opened, Prisma’s face blending at first with the shade of middle night. “They all right?” She stepped into the light, her golden maple skin, neither peach nor brown, illumined by the brass sconce on the wall of the mud room, which separated her apartment from the general house.
“The house is gone. Burned to the ground.”
Prisma slapped both hands over her heart. “Are they safe?”
“Sweet Pea is fine. Larkspur’s been trembling like a leaf ever since.”
“How did it start?”
“Why, Prisma, I don’t really know. I didn’t think to ask.”
