And so, a thousand times since Rankin’s funeral almost six months ago, she had asked the question. Another question with no answer, the cry of an anguished heart:
What the hell am I supposed to do now?
THIRTY-TWO
HIGHGATE HOUSE
MISSISSIPPI COLLEGE FOR Women
OCTOBER 1994
Delta had forgotten—or perhaps hadn’t noticed when she was a student here—how many antebellum homes the town boasted. All along College Street and in a wide perimeter around the campus, enormous mansions kept watch over the old Southern way of life—lush gardens, broad porches, elegant columns rising toward the sky Most were on the pilgrimage tour, she suspected. Several had been turned into B&Bs, with small tasteful signs out front, and a few were open to the public all year long.
Highgate House, a brick Greek Revival mansion two blocks from the college, sat back from Third Street on a shaded lot surrounded by magnolia trees. Somehow Rae Dawn had managed to get reservations there, booking its only three rooms with private baths.
Delta pulled into the driveway at Highgate and parked next to the carriage house. Her small rolling suitcase bumped noisily as she made her way around the brick sidewalk to the front door.
The door swung open and a small, birdlike woman with silver hair stepped out onto the porch. “Welcome to Highgate!” she said, opening her arms wide. “I’m Matilda Suttleby, the owner.” She squinted at Delta. “Are you Dawn? You look… different.”
“Do you mean Rae Dawn? No. I’m Delta Ballou.”
“Of course, of course!”The woman beamed and swept Delta into an effusive hug which Delta, encumbered by the suitcase and a purse, endured but did not return. “Do come in.”
Matilda led the way into a wide foyer dominated by a plush oriental rug and an enormous grandfather clock. To the right was a large parlor, decorated all in pink, with several uncomfortable-looking settees surrounding a marble fireplace. In a corner next to the window sat a very old and richly inlaid piano.
Delta abandoned her suitcase in the foyer and followed as Matilda turned to the left. Two steps down, the room opened into an enormous den with a low-beamed ceiling, another fireplace—fieldstone this time—and an assortment of deeply cushioned leather armchairs.
“You’ll be in the Jefferson bedroom up the stairs and to the right,” Matilda was saying as she rummaged through a pile of paperwork spread out on a huge walnut desk in the corner. “I’ve put Dawn in Robert E. Lee, just opposite yours, and the other two, the sisters, in the large Stonewall room down the hall.”
Jefferson Davis. Stonewall Jackson. Robert E. Lee. Delta’s mind flashed to the Stone Mountain carving, and she suppressed a smile.
“I’m sure you girls will have a lot of catching up to do,” Matilda was saying. “So you just make yourselves at home.
Through there”—she pointed to a swinging door at the end of the den—“is the grand dining room, where breakfast is served at eight. Beyond that you’ll find the kitchen. After hours feel free to forage for snacks. My room is the door to the right off the back porch. Call on me if you need anything.” She got up and came toward Delta, who was still standing in the middle of the room, and pressed a large key into her hand. “This unlocks the front door, in case I’m in bed when you come home. There’s a very nice enclosed garden out back—the weather is lovely in October, don’t you think? Oh, and I serve tea from two thirty to three thirty,” she finished breathlessly.
Delta struggled to take all this in. Finally she said, “Ah, thanks, Mrs. Suttleby.”
“Matilda!” the woman corrected with a little bob of the head. “You must call me Matilda. I like to think of my guests as friends, you know.”
She swooped out of the den and back into the foyer, hauling Delta behind her. “Now, up the stairs with you. Let’s get you settled. I’m sure your friends will be here soon.”
The Jefferson bedroom reminded Delta a little of rooms she had seen at the Biltmore House in Asheville—garish flocked wallpaper in shades of powder blue and green, dark mahogany furniture, and a bulbous blue floor lamp on a brass base. The carved rice bed was so high that she’d need a running start to get into it. From the wall above the fireplace a pen-and-ink portrait of Jefferson Davis, President of the Confederacy, scowled down upon her.
“All these bedrooms have private baths,” Matilda was saying as she laid Delta’s suitcase on the cedar chest at the foot of the bed and began to unzip it. “They weren’t original to the house, of course. We converted the maids’ sleeping chambers years ago.”
Through a door to the right, Delta caught a glimpse of an expanse of white tile and a clawfoot tub large enough to swim in. When she turned back, Matilda had opened her suitcase and was beginning to transfer underwear to a dresser drawer.
“No, I can do that,” she protested, returning to the woman’s side and shutting the suitcase lid with a slap.
Matilda pulled back abruptly and gazed dolefully at Delta with the expression of a four-year-old who has just had her favorite doll snatched away. “As you wish,” she murmured.
“I’ve had a long drive,” Delta said apologetically, “and I’d like to freshen up before the others get here.”
“Certainly.” Matilda backed out of the room with a broad smile pasted on her face, a smile that did not quite meet her eyes. “I do hope you’ll come down for tea.”
“Of course,” Delta said. “Two thirty, right?”
Matilda nodded and disappeared down the stairs.
Delta looked at the clock on the mantel under Jefferson Davis’s picture. It was almost quarter to two. She’d have half an hour, at least, to rest before having to face the indomitable Matilda Suttleby again. She hung a few things in the narrow closet, climbed the wooden step stool, and collapsed on top of the enormous bed.
ONLY WHEN A NOISE downstairs awoke her did Delta realize she had fallen asleep. As if from a great distance she heard the front door opening and shutting again, Matilda’s piping voice, the sonorous chiming of the grandfather clock.
She struggled to wakefulness and peered at the mantel clock. It was two-fifteen. The half-hour nap had done nothing to refresh her; on the contrary, she felt groggy and drugged. She had drooled on the satin bedspread and tried in vain to wipe the stain off with her hand.
“Delta!” a voice called up the stairs, followed by the pounding of feet. “Delta! Are you here?”
Delta slid off the bed and willed herself awake. She was just running her fingers through her hair as a petite figure with short blond hair burst into the room.
“Lacy!” Delta grinned. “Damn woman, you look just the same.”
Lacy launched herself across the room and hugged Delta hard. “So do you.”
“Not really,” Delta said. “But thanks for saying so.”
“Is Rae here yet?”
Delta shook her head. “She called last night and said she’d be late getting in.”
Matilda cleared her throat to get their attention. She was still standing in the doorway guarding a small bag, a bulky guitar case, and a large traveling crate that housed an enormous cinnamon-colored cat. “Your room is down the hall, Miss Cantrell,” she said.
“Oh! Sure, all right.” Lacy edged back to the doorway and retrieved her luggage She motioned to Delta with a snap of her head. “Come on. See my room.”
Delta picked up the guitar and followed. Matilda ushered them into a huge square bedchamber that must have taken up one entire wing of the house. Dormer windows on three sides let in a golden afternoon light. The ceilings, painted in a pale heathery purple, slanted upward from side walls about seven or eight feet high. There were four double beds in the room, one in each corner, matching canopy beds covered with handmade quilts in shades of lavender, purple, and sage green. In the center of the room, on a floor of wide pine planks, a large floral rug flanked by two velvet love seats created a conversation area.
Lacy looked around. “Jeez. My whole house would fit in this room.”
&n
bsp; Matilda glared at the cat carrier. “I normally don’t allow—”
“His name is Hormel. He’s very sweet, really.” Lacy opened the crate. Hormel streaked out, made one circuit around the room, and settled himself in a slant of sunlight at the foot of one of the canopied beds. “He won’t be any trouble, I promise,” Lacy said. “I’ve got a litter box down in the car, and he’ll stay in the room with me.”
“Well,” Matilda said, “I’ll make an exception this one time.” She did not attempt to unpack Lacy’s bag for her. Instead she placed it on a suitcase rack in the corner. “Tea in ten minutes,” she said, and left the room.
“This is a great place,” Lacy said when she was gone. “I feel like I’m in a time warp, gone back a hundred years.” She turned a broad smile on Delta. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
“Me too.” Delta sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed Hormel’s upturned belly. He squeezed his eyes tight shut and purred loudly. “You’re earlier than I expected.”
“I left yesterday, spent the night along the way,” Lacy said. “I’m too old for a twelve-hour road trip alone.”
“Alone? Didn’t Lauren drive down with you? You’re sharing a room, right?”
A shadow passed behind Lacy’s eyes, a brief cloud filtering the sun. “We didn’t have a choice about the room,” she said, “but we, ah, came separately. She’ll be here by dinnertime, I think.” The shadow retreated. “It looks like we get the luxury suite, anyway.”
“Lace,” Delta began, not knowing quite where to start, “is there something—”
Lacy held up a hand. “Later,” she said. “After we have tea with Scarlett O’Hara.”
IT WAS THREE THIRTY by the time they were finally alone in Lacy s room. Hormel had discovered the window seat and was snoring loudly.
“All right,” Delta said. “Tell me what’s going on.”
Lacy shook her head. “You first. When Rae Dawn called, she said Rankin had died. Delta, what happened? Why didn’t you call us? We would have been there for you.”
Delta fought for air against the heavy weight that settled on her chest. “There was this woman in our congregation—Vinca Hollowell. Her husband was a violent drunk and an abuser. Rankin was trying to help her. Anyway, Hollowell killed a man in a bar fight, and at his trial Rankin testified. Hollowell got fifteen years, and when he got out—”
She shrugged helplessly, unable to go on. “It’s been awful,” she said at last. “I keep trying to get a handle on this for my daughter’s sake, for my own sake. But I’m so angry, Lace. Angry and depressed. I can’t seem to get past it.”
“Angry at this Hollowell guy?”
“At him. At Rankin, for leaving me. At God, for letting it happen.” Delta exhaled. “Ham Hollowell beat my husband to death with a crowbar in front of the altar. I saw it all and couldn’t do anything to stop it.”
“Shit,” Lacy said.
Delta looked up and saw tears standing in Lacy’s eyes. An unexpected warmth washed over her. Someone else—someone not directly related to Rankin’s death—could weep with her. Someone else could say it was shit and never should have happened. The effect was instantaneous. The tension clenching at her gut released. Just a little, but it was enough.
LACY SAT THERE, stunned, as she tried to absorb the specifics of Delta’s husbands death. Nothing in her realm of experience enabled her to understand such grief, and yet the tears came. Now she understood, though Rae Dawn had not told her the details, why it was so important for her to come to this reunion.
Delta began to cry too. For a long time they just held hands and wept together. When the tears at last subsided, Lacy spoke.
“I have a friend in Kansas City,” she said. “My best friend. Her name is Alison Rowe. She was widowed at twenty-nine, her husband killed in Vietnam. Friendly fire, they called it.” She paused, remembering. “He was halfway through medical school when his number came up, and he went as a medic. One day while his unit was on patrol, they got pinned down in the jungle by snipers. Somehow he managed to get out, to radio for help. Then, while the helicopters were on their way, he went back in. Pulled three wounded men to safety and was shot in the back by one of his buddies who panicked and thought he saw the sniper.”
She looked up at Delta, who nodded for her to continue.
“At the funeral, Alison told me, people kept assuring her there was justification in her husbands death. The religious folks said it was God’s will, God’s time, that God had reasons beyond what we could understand. The military contingent said he was a hero who had given the ultimate sacrifice for freedom.”
“Sounds familiar,” Delta said in a choked voice. “Everyone told me that Rankin was in God’s hands, that everything happens for a purpose. That Rankin died the way he lived, standing up for those who had no power, no voice.”
“Not much comfort, is it?” Lacy said. “Alison told me she didn’t want a hero. She didn’t want God’s will. She wanted her husband back.”
Delta nodded. “She’s more honest than most. Most of us can’t deal with the paradox between an omniscient God and an omnipotent one. We believe—we have to believe—that God, or fate, or karma could have intervened, could have stopped the tragedy from happening. But when the miracle doesn’t come, what kind of God does that leave us with? What kind of God stands idly by in the midst of pain and suffering? Not a loving God, but a monster, a tyrant. Or an impotent weakling.”
“So what’s the answer?” Lacy asked.
“That’s the million-dollar question,” Delta said slowly. “The question I’ve been asking myself for months—why a supposedly loving God would allow a man like Rankin to meet such a violent and undeserved death. So far I’ve only come up with one answer.”
Lacy leaned forward. “And that is?”
Delta shrugged. “Shit happens.”
THE MOMENT THE WORDS left Delta’s mouth, some tightly wound spring inside her let go. It was so simple, really. She didn’t have to blame God for Rankin’s death. She didn’t have to blame anyone.
Not even herself.
“So,” Delta said after a while, “tell me what’s going on with you.”
Lacy hesitated. “I’m all right. I’ve been teaching in Hillsbor-ough, and—”
“I know what you do, Lace,” Delta interrupted. “I want to know how you are”
Lacy ducked her head and grinned. “All right. You want the real story, here it is.”
Delta listened while Lacy told about her midnight run on the bus from Hillsborough, about the chance meeting with Alison, about her years in Kansas City. “She’s a wonderful person, Delta. A great gift to my life. She helped me find purpose and direction. Alison drew me out of myself, helped me learn to live again.”
“After Trip, you mean.”
Lacy nodded. “When Lauren and Trip ran off to get married, I was pretty sure my life was over. It was hell. For years I had been competing with Lauren. When I met Trip and fell in love, I finally had something that was all my own. I was going to marry Trip, raise a family. When that didn’t happen, I ran away. Resigned myself to being miserable.”
“And Alison changed all that?”
“I changed,” Lacy corrected. “Alison was a catalyst.” She got up from the love seat and paced across the room. “On the surface, being a martyr or a victim seems very fulfilling, but it gets old after a while. Rage can be cleansing, but it only takes you so far. Sooner or later you have to let it go, get on with the business of finding purpose and meaning apart from the dreams that have died.”
Lacy knew little of what Delta had been through the past few months, and yet Delta felt as if she had peered into her very soul. The effect was unnerving. “Go on,” she said when Lacy sat down again. “You were talking about purpose and meaning.”
“I found meaning—at least in part—in teaching. Ironic, isn’t it? I took the job at the high school not because I felt called to teach, but because Trip was going to be in law school at Duke. Then I abandoned it and ran. On
ce I was in the classroom in Kansas City, however, I began to realize that my job wasn’t to drill dates and facts into resistant young minds, but to challenge these kids to learn to think. To help them find the connection between their own experience and what has happened in the past.” Her gaze drifted past Delta and fixed on the window that overlooked the garden. “The best days were the days when students came to me just to talk. I didn’t need to have answers. I simply needed to hear them out, to be trustworthy. They got pretty honest about their lives when an adult they trusted would just shut up and listen.”
“How long were you in Kansas City?”
“Almost fifteen years. When Dad had his stroke, Lauren had Ted to think about and couldn’t spare enough time. I came home to help. But I had also hoped—” She shrugged and fell silent.
“Hoped things wouldn’t work out with Lauren and Trip?” Delta ventured. “Hoped you might have a chance with him after all?”
Lacy’s head snapped around, and she fixed Delta with an incredulous look. “Lord, no!” she burst out. “I don’t want Trip. I want my sister back.”
Delta frowned. “Wait. I’m confused. You came back to Hills-borough ten years ago. You and Lauren—”
“Lauren and I see each other,” Lacy said. “We do family things together. We’re very polite and courteous to one another. But it’s all surface, all a sham. We’re not sisters anymore. We’re simply … acquaintances.”
“I don’t understand,” Delta said. “That one time Rankin and I came through Durham—when was it? Four years ago?—you and Lauren seemed okay. A little distant, maybe. But you acted like it was no big deal.”
“We acted. Leave it at that.” Lacy fell silent for a moment, and when she spoke again her voice sounded hoarse, cracked. “This isn’t about forgiveness, Delta. I forgave them years ago. I’ve moved on. I just want things to be normal between us. But it’s not normal. She never talks about Trip or their marriage. I know she’s unhappy, and I’d be there for her, except that she avoids me whenever possible and keeps things superficial when we’re forced to be together. She won’t open up to me. And it seems like that’s the way she wants to keep it.”
Delta Belles Page 26
