“Mom figured the seventeenth-century papers were safer in my library than yours because I don’t have children—and the reason you’re forgetful is because you do.”
“I miss Mom.” Cig turned away from Grace to stare into the fire.
“Me, too.”
“People say it’s better if someone dies fast, better than watching them linger, but at least if they take their time about dying you have the opportunity to make peace with them. Both Mom and Blackie died so suddenly. Sometimes I’m knocked flat by guilt. I don’t remember telling Mother that I loved her, but I sure couldn’t wait to tell her how much smarter I was than she was.”
Grace reached up and patted Cig’s shoulder. “She didn’t even think about it. Do you think about the crap your kids dump on you?”
“Not really. I count to ten.”
“Mom did the same thing.”
“She liked you better than me.”
“Cig, you make me so mad when you say that. She did not. I was a little more—tractable.”
“Devious. You told her what she wanted to hear.”
A silence followed. Grace finally said, “Most times I was diplomatic. I don’t care about being right. You have to be right. You always want to analyze everything, as if life were a big test we were all going to be graded on. I don’t care about intellectual arguments. I don’t see that they’ve advanced the human race one inch. So I just smile and roll on—wouldn’t hurt you to try it.”
Cig rested her chin on her hand. “I always intend to do that, then I forget.” She changed the subject. “See Dad today?”
“For a minute. He wants to go to Nag’s Head to hang glide.”
“Lord.” Cig shook her head. “Mamie is probably urging him to do it so she can collect the insurance once he crashes into the Atlantic.”
“Cynic. You don’t like her.”
“She’s thirty years younger than he is! No, I don’t like her. She’s a black widow. All she’s missing is the red hourglass on her abdomen.”
“Men can’t live without women. We do fine without them.”
“He could have waited longer to remarry, you know.”
“Well, he didn’t. He’s our father. We’d better make the best of it—and his drinking has slowed down, so be grateful.”
“What is this, Grace? Wisdom 101?”
“No. I just think these are hard times for you. Grappling with emotional hot wires has always been hard for you, just like being sensible and thinking about the future is hard for me.”
“I certainly never expected Blackie to drop dead of a heart attack at fifty-four. I know he was fifteen years older than I am but he never seemed like it—because he never grew up, I guess.”
“Never looked old, either. I’m starting to believe that when your number’s up, it’s up.”
Cig squinted into the fire. “I’m sorry he died in your living room. If he hadn’t been dropping off those contracts for Will….”
Grace reached for Cig’s hand. “If Blackie didn’t teach me anything else he sure taught me to grab life while you can.”
“What shocks me is that I was twenty-two when I married him. What will I do if Hunter or Laura marry at twenty-two?”
“Celebrate!”
Cig blinked. “Celebrate? I ought to have them committed.”
“Oh, Cig, remember the feeling?”
Cig recalled the first time she saw Blackie. Maybe she had been enchanted, but the years, the infidelities, had burned away the sensation. “No, I don’t. Whatever I felt then I’ve forgotten, and I’ve lost the capacity to feel it, period.”
Grace’s luminous eyes clouded. “Don’t say that, Cig.”
“Why not? It’s true.”
“If you feel that way, you’ve given up on life.”
“I’ve got Hunter and Laura. I’m not giving up on life.”
“Your life. Their lives are separate from yours.”
“Their lives are separate from mine once they’re out of college, earning their own keep.”
“Stop being obtuse,” Grace said sharply, her lips pursed together, a disapproving rosebud.
“You’re telling me I’ve given up on life because I’m not driven by raging hormones. That’s what I’m getting out of the conversation. Yes, I miss Blackie… but I couldn’t rely on him. And I couldn’t stand the smell of other women on his skin. Stolen flowers.”
“Huh?”
“Stolen flowers seem to smell sweeter than the ones you’ve grown in your own garden. Those women were stolen flowers.”
“You could have stolen a few of your own. What’s good for the goose is good for the gander. Vice versa in your case.”
Cig shrugged. “When would I have had the time? Someone had to keep life stable for the kids.”
“You were too busy being a martyr.”
“I was not. I didn’t want my kids packing suitcases for their weekend with Dad. I figured maybe I would divorce him once Laura was in college and that would have been four years down the road. What’s four years?”
“Could be the difference between life and death.”
“In Blackie’s case it was.”
“It’s not sinful to be happy. He was happy, but I agree he was irresponsible in some ways. He made a vow and he couldn’t keep it, he couldn’t stay faithful. But he fulfilled the rest of the marriage bargain.”
“I fulfilled all of it!” Cig snapped.
“You would never have divorced him.”
“You started this. You said what was good for the gander is good for the goose.”
Grace twisted some shiny hair around her forefinger. “Did I say that?”
“Yes. You just did.”
“Yeah… well, playing devil’s advocate. I’m not sure it matters if your husband is faithful to you. It only matters that you love him.”
“Of course you say that. You’ve been unfaithful to will since year one of your marriage.” She leaned toward her sister slightly, like the Leaning Tower of Pisa.
Grace took her stockinged feet off the coffee table and pushed Cig backward. She flopped back on a pillow.
“So…?” Grace said.
“You don’t know what I feel!”
“Well, feel something! Say something. Do something.” Grace’s cheeks flushed. “I hate to see you suffer.”
Cig sat up and twirled around, tucking her legs under her so she faced her beautiful sister. “Sometimes I hear the clock ticking. Sometimes I hear my heartbeat. I hear myself breathing. That’s my life that’s ticking away. I’ve never seen Paris. I’ve never been to Munich or St. Petersburg or Buenos Aires or Santiago or the fjords of Norway—you name it. Blackie took me to Ireland—once. I’d like to go back. I want to go places that are magnets for energy, for culture, for whatever the human race has thought and done over the centuries. I want to feel that crazy sweat running between my breasts when I see a man who excites me. But it seems out of reach… what I want. I can’t even pay my bills. I can’t imagine falling in love again. My one solace is foxhunting. FU still have that when the kids leave.”
Grace grew solemn. “You know what I want? I want to go to the airport and hop on the first plane that has an open seat. I don’t want a plan, I don’t even want to know anyone wherever the destination may be—Istanbul, whatever. I just want to go. Maybe I want to forget myself. Maybe if I don’t hear English spoken I will forget myself.”
“What’s keeping you?”
“I don’t know.” Grace wistfully pushed a lock of hair off her forehead.
“Will?”
“God no.”
“Dad?”
“No.”
“Me?”
“I want to make sure you’re all right. I want to see you laugh again, really laugh. Then I’ll go.”
Touched, yet somewhat disbelieving, Cig shook her head. “You are not your sister’s keeper.”
“We all are. You said it yourself. You and I have unfinished business. Maybe when that’s done I can go.”
This startled Cig. “What are you talking about?”
Grace blinked. “I don’t know, really. It’s in the back of my head. When it comes to the front I’ll let you know.”
Cig, long accustomed to Grace’s ways, didn’t press. Instead she asked, “Are you really that bored?”
“Sometimes.” Grace shifted her position. “Aren’t you?”
“The kids…” She smiled at Grace. “I think I want less than you do.”
Grace started to speak then seemed to think better of it. “I don’t even know what I want.”
Cig reached out to pat her sister’s hand. “I think the anniversary of Blackie’s death is hitting you harder than it’s hitting me.”
Grace thought a bit, then said, “I miss him. He could be a bad boy but he was so much fun. Sheer irrepressible fun.”
They sat a while longer before Cig observed, “You know how I know that Laura’s blabbing on the phone? It hasn’t rung once. She doesn’t quite get that the phone is business.”
“You need another line.”
“The noise! It’d be off the hook. Anyway, I can’t afford another line. I think I’ll go up there and yank the damn cord out of the wall.”
“Later. Don’t you remember what it was like at that age—you had so much to say and it was the first time you’d ever said it? The first time you exchanged a confidence over a crush or talked about a book you loved and actually understood? I hear myself now and it’s like an old tape.”
“Maybe you do need to go to Istanbul.”
“You could come with me when Laura gets into college.”
“Can you wait that long?”
“I don’t know.” Grace became serious, then suddenly stretched out her arms and wiggled her fingers under Cig’s nose. “Snakes!”
“Snakes.” Cig repeated the gesture, and they fell on one another laughing.
Their mother used to do that whenever she wanted to hex somebody, usually at the card table, but she was known to do it at social gatherings very discreetly so that only her family could see. She said she had learned it from her husband’s mother. Dad wouldn’t do it because he thought it was undignified. Blackie loved to do it after he picked it up from the Deyhle family. There has to be an oddball in the family, and their mother often played that part.
“I miss Mom.” Cig laughed again, remembering the delight in Amy Deyhle’s eyes when she’d pull one of her snakes.
“Is this what getting old is about?” Grace innocently asked. “Do we just say good-bye all the time?”
“I guess it is, but we get to say hello, too. Hello to grandchildren. Hello to the new generations.”
“What if I don’t like the next generation? I certainly didn’t want to produce any of them. I left that to you. Will still harps on it though.”
“Some people are meant to be mothers and some aren’t. You aren’t.”
“I don’t think I’d be a good mother.” Grace sounded unconvincing.
“Probably because you’re still a child.” Cig laughed. “I’m hungry again. Can you believe it?”
They repaired to the kitchen where Cig served up a delicious carrot cake she’d bought on the way home, and Grace declared she was not a child and if she really wanted to she’d be a superior mother or a mother superior, take your pick. After devouring the cake and washing it down with a good cup of tea, Grace glanced at the big wall clock. “Time to boogie.”
“Stay here if you want. We’ve got to get up so early.”
“Will pitches a fit if I’m not home when he’s had a late night at the hospital. I don’t know why. I’m usually sound asleep.”
“He loves you in his own way.”
“No—he’s dependent in his own way.”
“All men are dependent, Grace. Big deal.”
Grace pushed down her fork to mash the crumbs on her plate. She ate them, too. “Why? If I just knew why. You start out as their siren and wind up as their mother.”
Cig shrugged. “Who knows?” Then she added, “I’m glad you came over tonight.”
“Me, too.” Grace scooped up the vicuña then hugged her square-shouldered sister, who walked her to the back door. As they entered the mud room, Grace said, “October has to be the very best time of year. The leaves changing, the first frosts, those clear, crisp nights that cut into your soul.”
“Yeah.” Cig agreed and wished she could be as glib, as descriptive, as Grace.
Grace turned to face her. “Cig, I have this premonition. It’s—well, last night I came home after my tennis committee meeting for the country club and the moon was huge—huge like a bursting melon.”
“Saw it.” Cig smiled.
“Well, I had this feeling, like a Chill crawling down my spine. Even my hair tingled. And I just looked at the moon and a thin cloud passed over it like a Prussian blue knife blade and I thought, ‘Something’s coming down. Something’s coming down and well never ever be the same,’ and I don’t know if it’s good or bad but—I’m scared.”
“Blackie’s death. You’re so sensitive, Grace. The anniversary’s working on you.”
“No. This is about the future, not the past.” Grace reached up and kissed her sister then opened the mud room door and walked to her car as Cig switched on the light for her. “Hey,” Cig called, “maybe the past is in the future.”
She stopped on the worn brick walk. “Wouldn’t it be perfect if there were no time, or at least if we had no sense of it?” She threw her hands in the air, undone by the philosophizing, and changed the subject. “Has Laura talked to you about the dance?”
“Yes.”
“I mean, really talked to you?”
“She said she’s not going with Donny Forbush. And she’s worried about Will.” Cig suppressed a flash of impatience. “We talked about this at supper. Are you suffering from early Alzheimer’s?”
Grace gulped in the sparkling air. “No.” She started to say something then continued walking. She reached the car and then called out, “I love you.”
“I love you, too.” Cig waved. She closed the door once Grace had started the car. A whiff of clear, cold air snuck into the room.
3
From the mud room window, Cig watched the silvery curlicue of exhaust from Grace’s tailpipe as she cruised down the driveway. She crossed her arms over her chest, not realizing how tightly she was hugging herself until she couldn’t breathe. She shook her head and walked back into the kitchen. Hunter was eating a huge piece of carrot cake.
“This is great, Mom.”
“I slaved hours over the stove to make that cake.” He winked at her. She returned the wink and walked into the library where she picked up the family books and papers stacked on a wide shelf next to the dictionaries. She opened the massive maroon leather book, gilt edged, and studied the cursive handwriting that cataloged births and deaths since 1860. Like so many Americans, she was indifferent to her family’s history as well as history in general. She wasn’t a total fool, she knew the past was prologue, but somehow she never got around to studying the part that the Deyhles, the Buckmghams, the Charters, the Burkes, the deVries, the Chesterfields, the Merritts, and who knows who else had played in creating Virginia, the nation, and her own self, genetically anyway.
Hunter entered the room and read over her shoulder. “How did they do that?”
“Years of practice, plus india ink and pens with gold tips.”
“When did we stop using quills?”
“Do you really think I know the answer to that?” She laughed at him.
“You might. You know some incredible stuff, Mom.”
“Like what?”
“Like you remember Richard Nixon.”
“You remember what you lived through. I was about your age then.”
“Well, I bet quills were fun to use.”
“As long as you weren’t the goose.” Cig traced a big C with her finger. “Not that they killed them for their feathers.”
“Mom, feathers fall out—kind of lik
e Uncle Will’s hair.”
“I swear, he’s hitting the dye pots or using Grecian Formula 44. He was grayer, I know he was.” She glanced at her own hair in the mirror. Not much gray. “Did you finish your homework?”
“I’ve got two problems left in physics.”
“Knock ‘em out.”
“Okay.” He didn’t budge.
She put her hands on her hips” “Yes?”
“Can I borrow twenty dollars?”
“Twenty dollars?” Cig’s voice rose.
“I know it’s a lot, but I want to take Beryl Smith to the dance and I’m short.”
“Hunter, I’m not made out of money.”
“Mom, it’s only twenty bucks.”
“Twenty here and twenty there—it adds up. You’ve got to get it through your head that we don’t have money like we did when Dad was alive.”
“What if I put in extra hours at the barn?”
“I’ve heard that before.”
“I’ll do it. I’ll clean out the cobwebs, change the light bulbs under the eaves, fix the broken washer in the wash stall. I promise… please.”
“What’s so hot about Beryl Smith?”
His eyebrows knitted together. “She’s, uh, she’s…”
“A space cadet,” Cig blurted out. “I take that back.” She sighed. “Hunter, I hate crabbing about money, I hate denying you anything, but every penny counts.”
“Mom, I swear I will keep my promise. I’ll do those chores. I’ll even wash and wax the car.”
“And the next question is, can you borrow it for the dance? Hunter, you’re transparent.” She paused, then held out her hand. “Oh, all right. Deal.”
“Deal.” He shook her hand.
“Is your sister bagging the dance altogether?”
His face blanked. Hunter’s ignorance had an artful air. “I don’t know.”
“Oh yes, you do.”
“You always tell us to be direct. You should ask Laura, not me.”
She stared at him. “You’re absolutely right.”
He bounded out of the library, happy to have twenty dollars, leaving Cig to wonder just what was going on. She heard his door close. She climbed the stairs, passed his room and heard Laura hang up the phone. She thought she heard her say, “I love you.” Cig blinked. She’d never thought of her daughter as falling in love and hoped she’d misheard. She tried to recall how she had felt at fifteen, but it was too far back or she had pushed it too far back.
Riding Shotgun Page 4
