"Ooooh, Gramps, I'm going into my junior year at Heritage soon. It won't be long before I learn to drive."
"I guess I better get off the road then. Dangerous to have a six-year-old driving around..." We all laughed.
"So, Miss Gertrude, what about this date? Who was the boy? Will I have to go over to his house and set him straight about a few things?"
"No. He's a nice boy." No reason to elaborate on the details about how my reputation was very safe.
"Yes," said Fleur, "he has a striking coloring, dark skin and tight curls with bright sparks. You don't see that everyday."
"Aunt Fleur gave me a magic spell to make him like me, but I don't think it worked."
She shook her head at me and waved her hand a bit. A little crease formed between her painted eyebrows. I couldn't understand what she was trying to tell me. But, too late, I had already said the wrong thing.
His face reddened. "You see, Flo, this is exactly what I'm talkin' about! You can't go 'round doing all this crazy stuff. You knew that when you came back to town."
"Don't worry, Granpa, it was nothing." After all my years of living with feuding parents, I play the role of peacemaker easily.
He softened slightly. The flush faded from his face as he turned to me. "What's this boy's name?"
"Eric. Eric Alexander."
Grandpa took a gulp from his teacup. "Alexander? Is his mother Ruby?" Granpa is my mother's father. She is so much like him. They both ask questions that seem innocent enough, but I can always sense that there is something beneath the surface. They don't ask what they really want to know.
"I don't know his mother's name. She died years ago. Why? Did you know her?" That is a stupid question. Everyone knows everyone in this town. They know who your people are, all your kin from way back. They probably know how much you paid for your house and how often married people have sex.
"I knew some of her family."
"That's funny. Eric said she was adopted. Even he didn't know much about her family."
"I mean, I guess I knew somethin' about her. Your mother dated Hunter a long time ago. He was her first love, right before she married your father."
"How strange that she didn't tell me that!" I suppose there are still some secrets in this town. Well, secrets from me, anyway. This line of questioning was serving a good purpose. Not only was it giving me an insight about my mother when she was a girl, something I have trouble imagining, but it took some of the pressure off my aunt. I got the feeling that he had been giving her a hard time before I got there.
"Oh, Gramps, you must tell me. My mother and Eric's father? WOW! This is interesting."
He stared into his cup as if he could read the tea leaves. "There ain't much to tell. She'd been pining around like a lost pup. They broke up or somethin'. I came home from work an' axed your gramma how she was. She said, 'Alright. She just came back from the drug store. She's up in her room. She took a bowl of soup with her.'" He stopped talking. Grandpa is a funny guy, always making jokes, but his face dropped slightly. Suddenly, he looked ancient.
I thought he was finished, but he began talking again. "I went upstairs and knocked on her door. There she was, all red-faced and puffy. Sure 'nuff, she was sittin' in the bed spoonin' that soup into her mouth. I got closer and saw little colored things floatin' in the broth. That girl had dumped all sorts of pills into the bowl!"
"So, was she okay?"
"Hell, no! We had to take her to the hospital and get her stomach pumped! Damn fool thing to do. Over a boy!" He shook his lowered head. That must have happened almost twenty years ago. He doesn't appear to understand it even now.
We were all quiet.
"Gotta go," he said. "But, Flo, heed my words." He closed the door quietly behind him.
"Why does he call you Flo?"
"It's my real name—sort of. Really, it's Florenz. I was named after my grandfather."
"Oh, so you changed it, like you changed my name from Gertrude to Truly."
"If life hands you lemons, make lemon pie, with a fluffy meringue top! Embellish, embellish, embellish!"
"He seems awfully interested in what you are doing," I said. "I guess he misses Granma Belle. She's been gone a long time. Most men would have remarried, or at least dated."
"Oh, she was a great lady. We were good friends. In many ways I was closer to her than to my own brother."
"Do you miss her, too?"
She smiled at me. "After they were married, I came back to visit every year or so. We had a terrific time together.'"
"What would you do?" My grandma died when I was very young. I remember oatmeal cookies and fairytales. Somehow I don't remember her being the life of the party.
"Well, every time I came to visit we worked on a project together. One time, we made some fabulous curtains for her boudoir. They were so over the top—a rich brocade, with fringe a foot deep, and heavy braided silk tie-backs. They could have hung at Versailles."
"I'll bet Granpa hated them. He doesn't like anything too girly." I couldn't imagine him sleeping in a bedroom that was so feminine.
"No." She stopped talking. I thought she had something else to say, but then maybe not.
"What else did you guys do?" I was beginning to forget things about Granma Belle. She is buried in Friendship Cemetery. Once in a while Mom goes there to clean her grave, but she never asks me to go with her. These stories were bringing her back to me.
"Oh, one year I made her an elegant wool coat. We copied it from a photo in Vogue. It was emerald green, with square gold buttons shaped like the little boxes from a jewelry store." A sort of darkness fell over her face. I knew it was time to change the subject.
"So, do you want to hear about my date?"
"Certainly!"
"It didn't go too great. I don't think he likes me."
"Give it time. He just needs to learn more about you, about how fabulous you are! And, of course, you need to know a bit more about him. You do realize, Truly, there is the chance that he won't seem quite so marvelous when you meet the real person, the one we all hide."
"Yeah, I guess so. I did find out why he hates his old track coach. He said he was mean."
"Ah, 'mean.' The beginning of the mystery..."
Sometimes Aunt Fleur talks in riddles. I don't always get what she is saying. "The beginning?"
"Mysteries have layers. That is the first layer."
It all seemed so straightforward to me. His coach was mean. Isn't that enough?
11
Columbus is a place where nothing ever happens. The big draw here is Spring Pilgrimage, when a handful of tourists come to visit our huge collection of antebellum mansions. Owning one is the status symbol. Historic home owners are treated like the royalty they wish they were.
Sometimes a house gets kicked off Pilgrimage, and that is news. There are a lot of pointless power-plays, even in the antebellum world of "nobody cares except the homeowners." The Columbus Historical Foundation takes their authority very seriously. You would think they were politicians, or something.
I have trouble understanding why it is all so very important. It seems like people around here have no idea that the Civil War ended in the 1800s. Since the homes are all from the same period, they have a stuffy similarity that I cannot get excited about. I should ask Eric to explain it to me. He is certainly an expert on the past.
Columbus is also the birthplace of Tennessee Williams—"America's Best Playwright." However, only a few artsy types care about him. Most people know that he was a notorious homosexual, so that makes him a sinner in the eyes of God. People here seem to have a direct line to God, and to Jesus, so they know exactly how those two feel about things.
We don't actually have many homosexuals. I would bet that most of the folks in this town wouldn't even recognize one. Still, they are considered evil, with an agenda to seduce God-fearing Christians, winning them over for Satan.
I suppose it's no wonder that people spend so much time minding each other's busine
ss, and hating people that they do not know personally. Gossip is somewhat more interesting than boredom.
Not too far away from Columbus is the city of Tupelo, "The Birthplace of Elvis Presley." We would love to claim him. There's no doubt about his sexuality, and he loved his mama and Jesus, too. If only Elvis had been born here, we would have so much to be proud of.
Of course, Mayor Perkins' twenty-something twin sons, Karloss and Kordell, get into trouble all the time. That's not really news, especially since influential people at City Hall cover up the boys' peccadilloes. The Dispatch tends to downplay their recklessness, as well, taking a boys-will-be-boys attitude. However, their transgressions usually involve guns, and certainly not toy guns.
There are also whispers of dog fighting. That frightens me a lot. Anyone who hurts a helpless animal—well, it makes you wonder, would they hurt a person, too? If people in town have proof of that, they are being very close-mouthed about it. I can understand their position, sort of. Mayor Perkins has a reputation for being a bully. There is fear of retribution.
But, Monday morning brought news that stunned the town like a bolt of lightning. Coach Lewis Russell had been murdered!
The headline of The Commercial Dispatch read, "RESPECTED EDUCATOR AND COACH FOUND STRANGLED." It was the lead story on WCBI, the local CBS affiliate, at 5, 6, and 10 p.m.
Our weekly paper, The Columbus Packet, put out a special edition with photos of the body, in a black bag, being wheeled into the coroner's van. They gave the story a very important position, above the mug shots, and even before the pictures of bloody drunks getting arrested for fighting.
People were frightened, and in a perverse way, thrilled. There was so much to speculate about. By all accounts Coach Lewis was beloved. Not as beloved as Mother Goose, to be sure, but still well-liked in the community.
There were interviews with his colleagues, all giving the expected quotes: "he was wonderful"; "a dedicated teacher"; "a fine man"; "an asset to the Historic Commission." . . . For some reason there were few comments from members of the track team. He had taught for over twenty years. You would think they would be grieving en masse.
There were even some interviews with John Daigle, the father of Skip. Could there be a connection between Skip's suicide and Coach's murder? Unlikely, in my book. It was all so tragic. John Daigle, or "Johnny D," as most people around here called him, was devastated. Photos of him in the Dispatch showed a slender man with red-rimmed eyes. His misery cloaked him. Anyone could see that he would never be the same.
The Packet included in their story a small detail about how Skip's mother, Linda Daigle, had disappeared several years ago. I suppose that made it much worse for Johnny D. Skip was all he had.
Coach's wife, Sue Ellen Russell, was playing the devastated widow. Columbus shared her sorrow. There were lots of photos of her on the news and in the papers. She was a mousy-looking woman, with a tight, gray bun wound on the top of her head like a steely tiara.
The story got "curiouser and curiouser." Although the Russells owned one of Columbus' historic homes on the south side of town, he was discovered in a small bungalow on 3rd Street North. The house was owned by him, but according to the investigation, his wife knew nothing about it. Apparently, it was a sort of party-house for the track team.
My dad found the whole story a source of great amusement. "Now, that's the way to have a happy marriage, separate houses across town! Wish I had thought of that."
I couldn't wait to get to "work" to ask Eric about it. He had called in sick, much to my disappointment.
Mother Goose was as disturbed about it as everyone else. At "Story Time" she was off her game, and asked me to do the reading. As it turns out, I am a very good reader, and surprisingly, really enjoy it. Who knew? Maybe I can discover my passion yet.
"Goose, you knew Coach Russell pretty well, didn't you?"
"Oh, yes, we served on the Historic Commission board together." She sat at her desk, eyes lowered, fingering a puppet that looked like a lamb. Her office is filled, floor to ceiling, with books and stuffed animals. It is like a garden of fuzzy plush and wild colors. This is the happiest place I have ever seen.
"And everybody loved him?"
"Certainly! He worked for historic preservation, a great asset to the community." Mother Goose has one of those bigger-than-life personalities. Even though she is petite, her presence fills every room she enters. Southern towns always have characters like her. (Come to think of it, Aunt Fleur is fast becoming one, too.) Today, Goose was oddly subdued.
I realized that I had learned something from my mother's approach to questioning. She never asks what she really wants to know.
"I don't think Eric likes him," I offered.
"Well, Lewis could be abrasive. Once he verbally attacked me in the parking lot, yelling. He was angry about the way I had voted on the demolition of an old building downtown."
"Were you scared?"
"Indeed, I had never seen that side of him." She thought for a moment. "He recovered quickly, but after that I was always a bit leery of him." Mother Goose is an old lady. She is slender and fragile. Anyone who hurt her would be tarred and feathered and run out of town on a rail, as locals like to say. Around here, locals like clichés.
I decided to give Eric a call, just to see if he was alright. The phone rang for a long time before the answering machine picked up. When the beep came, I couldn't think of anything to say.
12
Eric didn't come back to the library for a week. He must have been in pretty bad shape to stay out so long. I missed him, and tried to engage him in conversation as soon as he walked in the door. No luck; he was sullen and quiet.
It must be sad to be sick with no mother to take care of you. I asked if his dad was a good nurse.
"Not really," he said, "my Maw Maw, Clementine, checked in on me. She's my mother's mother. So, it almost felt like I had a mom there."
"I thought your mom was an orphan." Something about his stories didn't add up. Surely, there was nothing to hide. If he had any secrets my parents would most likely know.
"She raised my mom, and for the most part, me too. No one knew much about where mom came from. As far as I'm concerned, Clementine is my grandmother."
"I can see why you would love her. I love my Aunt Fleur."
He gave me a sideways glance. I got the impression that there was something he wasn't saying, something boiling beneath that dark and handsome surface.
"Eric, why don't you like Fleur?" This had been bugging me. Maybe I should have waited till he was feeling better. There was an air of vulnerability about him today.
"Truly, you don't need to know. You love her. That's all that matters."
"For Christ's sake, just tell me!"
"All right. The talk around town is that she's a witch. I didn't want to believe it. But when I met her, it made sense. The black cats, the 'magic'... She made my skin crawl." He stopped talking.
I had no idea how to respond. My throat burned. My eyes filled with tears. "I don't know how you can say such an awful thing! She is wonderful: quirky maybe, but a witch? I think you're crazy to throw that kind of shade at her!"
"Truly, I'm sorry. I didn't make it up. You know how people talk." I think he was sorry, but too late. The damage was done.
I started to walk away without telling him good-bye, but then turned back and said, "You missed a lot while you were out. I guess you heard the news about your old coach."
His beautiful dark skin turned ashen. "Yeah, I heard."
"Doesn't it make you sad? After all, it was a violent death. Someone must have really hated him."
"I have work to do. See you later." Then he was gone. And people say women are mysterious!
I stayed to myself as much as I could that day. I was deeply hurt by his comments about my aunt. It was a shock, too, to think that people in Columbus were talking about her. A witch? How silly is that? That spell she gave me didn't even work. Of course, I had made a couple of alteratio
ns. That could be the problem. But, no! Not a witch.
I learned a long time ago to be careful what I said around town. The speed of gossip is faster than the Internet. Word of mouth can be more corrosive than acid. Why is it that good stories are so seldom circulated? People love scandal, even if it's not true.
Columbus walks a fine line between now and the past two centuries. This town slips back and forth between eras like we have some sort of time machine. It wasn't so long ago that crosses were burned on people's lawns. I wouldn't be surprised if there were a few residents who are just dying for an opportunity to drag those timbers out again. They probably still have a pointy-topped sheet or two hanging in their closets.
In spite of Eric's reserve, I had gleaned another tidbit about his family—that he had a "grandmother." I knew my parents could shed more light on the subject. I was also beginning to realize that I would make a great detective. Maybe that could be a career path for me. It was certainly something to consider.
That evening at dinner I approached the subject carefully. Dad was on his second martini, and mom had a glass of wine. She loves her Pinot and buys it by the box.
"Mom, dinner is delish. You really outdid yourself tonight." It was Hamburger Helper, Potato Stroganoff flavor, not exactly a gourmet meal.
She gave me a look through lowered eyes. I think she was on to me.
"Did you guys ever know someone named Clementine?"
They both stopped chewing.
"She's Eric's grandmother. That's what he told me. She raised his mother." I stopped to give them time to say something.
"Yes," Mom said, "we all knew her. Clem was a maid. She worked for a lot of the families around town. I wasn't aware that she was still alive. She must be very old."
"I dunno. A maid?"
"Gertrude, she is, or was, a domestic, just one of the many black cleaning ladies who came in and out of our lives. I was a child when she worked for us."
"What was she like?"
"I barely remember. I know that my mother got furious with her, fired her. Something about stealing, I think. That was all so long ago."
Witch Ball Page 4
