The Hideaway

by Lauren K. Denton

  “Famous isn’t what we want to be,” Glory said.

  “Yeah, but ‘not homeless’ is,” Major said. “So if it takes Mr. Crowe and the Mobile Press-Register drumming up support for the house, I’ll take the fame. I’ll be upstairs shaving if anyone needs me.”

  “No one’s coming to take your picture, Major,” Glory called as he left. She turned to us. “I’d better go talk some sense into him. He’ll be down here in his Sunday best before long.” She hurried up the stairs behind him.

  With the room blessedly empty, Crawford pulled me to him. “I’ve missed you,” he said into my neck, his lips tickling my skin. He put his hands on the sides of my face and kissed me.

  “You’re in a good mood for someone whose hard work may be about to meet the wrecking ball.”

  “Not gonna happen. I have a feeling for these things.”

  “Oh, you do?” I asked.

  “Mm-hmm. I also have a feeling we need to get out of here soon. I love your roommates, but—”

  Bert rounded the corner from the hall, his gaze down on yesterday’s mail, and walked right into us. “Don’t mind me,” he said, disentangling himself. “I’ll be out of your hair in a jiff.”

  “See what I mean?” Crawford whispered.

  He kissed me again, soft and quick, then called out to Bert. “I brought enough food to feed an army, Bert. No need to run off.” He handed me a cup of coffee, but before I could take a sip, the doorbell rang again. “No rest for the wanted,” he said. “Better see who it is.”

  I was just starting back up the front steps after chatting with a man from the Baldwin County Preservation Society when I heard a rustling in the azalea bushes at the side of the house. Clark Arrington pushed his way through, carrying a pair of loppers in his hand.

  “Oh, hey,” he said when he saw me. “I always tried to keep these bushes from growing too tall for Mrs. Van Buren. I just figured I’d keep cutting them back until someone tells me to stop. But if you’d rather me not . . .”

  “No, it’s okay.” Before, I probably would have told him we could take care of the bushes ourselves, but in light of everything that had happened, I appreciated Clark’s desire to continue this trivial means of keeping The Hideaway in shape.

  “I’m sorry about what’s happening to this old place,” he said, his hands busy in the bushes along the edge of the porch. “Sammy’s been talking about it for a while, but I didn’t think he’d actually go through with it.”

  So this was what Clark had been dropping hints about on the dock. And I’d just thought he was being a nuisance.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Yeah, I’ve been doing some work for him here and there over the last year or so. He wanted me to help him on this deal, but I just couldn’t do it. Not if it meant tearing down your grandmother’s house. I kind of liked the old bird.”

  I laughed. “I’m glad to hear it, Clark. I wasn’t sure, to be honest.”

  “She was nice to me. She used to pay me in vegetables for my work around the yard. And if they ever had any leftover pie, she’d bring a slice across the street and leave it on the steps leading up to my apartment. She always covered it in plastic wrap to keep the ants away.”

  Clark bent down to pick up the branches he’d cut, then without saying good-bye, retreated through the space in the azalea bushes.

  By lunchtime, a banner had been erected at the end of the driveway facing Highway 55. “Sweet Bay Supports The Hideaway!” it said. Several smaller, homemade signs dotted the grass: “Protect Our Town!” “Go Away, Sammy!” and “Save Sweet Bay!”

  The flood of neighbors and well-wishers slowed in the afternoon. I sank down in a chair at the dining table next to Bert, who was folding dish towels. “I can’t even wrap my brain around what’s happened today,” I said.

  “It’s been a big day,” Bert agreed. “I think it’s been successful though. Maybe Sammy will pull the plug on the whole deal.”

  “Sammy won’t do it, but if the mayor fears he’s angered too many people, maybe he’ll back off.” I reached over and grabbed a towel to fold. “I never thought people in Sweet Bay cared anything about this place or even liked Mags that much. So many people made fun of her. I can’t believe they’re stepping up now and giving us—giving her—support.”

  “You don’t have it quite right,” Major said from the kitchen. He walked into the dining room. “If you hadn’t been stuck inside that teenage head of yours all those years ago, you might have figured that out.”

  I opened my mouth, but he continued. “I’ll be the first to say Mags was a little odd—she wore strange clothes, never picked up a mop for as long as I knew her, and she had a strange affinity for sitting in the garden late at night—but she left her mark on Sweet Bay, and people won’t soon forget that. Take me and Glory. We arrived here in south Alabama at the height of the sixties—two black faces in a whole town of white. She didn’t bat an eye about opening her doors to us. Not only that, she talked us out of leaving when we thought we’d overstayed our welcome. She was a strong woman a step ahead of the times.

  “Sure, some people made fun of her—small-minded people will do that. And kids—kids laugh at anything different from them. But most of the adults in town knew she was a necessary part of life here in Sweet Bay. A necessary part of our lives, for sure.”

  “Major’s right,” Bert said. “And like Mrs. Busbee said in that article, Mags was the town matriarch and she took care of people. She never seemed to have extra money to put into the house, but money would show up when someone needed help. I stopped trying to figure her out a long time ago. She is who she is—or was—and we loved her for that. End of story.”

  That was just it though—they had all known there was more to Mags than she let on, and the townspeople respected her for her help in times of need. I, on the other hand, took her for exactly who she was on the surface, never bothering to consider that a full, rich life had been waiting just underneath. I realized I loved her life, her spirit. I loved who she had been all along.

  39

  MAGS

  1976

  I wasn’t normally a churchgoing woman. Back in Mobile, we attended the Episcopal church, although I always got a feeling it was more because of the beauty of both the stained glass and the congregation. The Methodist church right down the street would have been fine, but it didn’t have glass brought in from Europe and couldn’t claim the mayor of Mobile and the head of Bay Imports as members.

  Dot and Bert had been going to Baldwin Baptist since they moved in, and they asked me to accompany them every Sunday. And every Sunday I declined. The house was quiet on Sunday mornings, and I usually spent those hours on the dock or in my garden. Why mess up a perfectly good morning with fire and brimstone and a healthy heap of guilt to go on top?

  “You should try it just once,” Dot said to me one Saturday evening as I tiptoed through my garden picking bell peppers. “What can it hurt? It might even help.”

  “What makes you think I need any help?”

  “Just think about it,” Dot said. “No one’s going to make you walk the aisle if you don’t want to, and it may make you feel better to let go of—well, anything you may be holding on to.”

  Dot was many things, but subtle wasn’t one of them. “Why do you think I need to feel any better than I do right now? I’m fine.”

  Dot moved closer to me, sidestepping a tall pepper plant. “I’ve been here for sixteen years. That’s sixteen years of watching you walk around with a weight on your shoulders that you never talk about and pretend isn’t there. And watching you love someone who is never coming back.”

  I drew in a quick breath and stepped back.

  “Don’t get mad, just listen to me for a minute. You are a strong woman in every area except one—William. You’ve told me a thousand times that you’re over him, but it’s just not true. I know he came in here and set your world on fire, but it was a long time ago, and life goes on. After all these years of being your best frie
nd, I think I’ve earned the right to say this: You need to let him go.”

  So much for trying to look strong.

  I wasn’t ready to give up, but would it free me if I did? I wasn’t sure if I even wanted to be free. What if, miracle of miracles, he did come back one day? If I’d already shut my heart off and let him go, I might not be able to kick it into gear again.

  I put my arm around Dot. “I’ll think about it.”

  Surprise crossed her face. “I thought you’d slap me for sure.”

  “Have I ever done anything to make you think I’m a violent person?”

  She smiled. “Maybe not, but after Robert left, I told Bert to hide the oyster knife just in case he ever came back.”

  Not long after that conversation, I gave in.

  “I won’t even ask what changed your mind. Just be ready at eleven,” Dot said. “And try to wear something normal.”

  I didn’t tell her, but what made me change my mind was a simple question from Jenny that literally stopped me in my tracks. She and I had taken a stroll before dinner, and after chatting about her biology homework and the roses growing outside Grant’s Hardware, Jenny took a deep breath. I knew something was on her mind, but I also knew just enough about teenagers to know if I came out and asked her what was wrong, she’d never tell me.

  “Mama, how did it feel when you and Dad fell in love?”

  I was so unprepared for that question, I stopped putting one foot in front of the other.

  She turned. “What are you doing? We’re in the middle of the street.”

  I followed her to the sidewalk, trying to come up with an answer.

  “I know you don’t like to talk about him,” she continued. “I just—Mabel told me Mark Kupek is in love with me. She asked me if I’m in love with him, but how am I supposed to know? What did it feel like with you and Dad?”

  Which one? The man she thought was her dad or the real one? I still hadn’t given Jenny the letter I’d written on the beach in Gulf Shores, even though she was now approaching high school. Every time I gathered the courage to pull the letter out of its hiding place and take it to her, I lost the nerve. She’d be rocking on the back porch with a paperback in her hands, or laughing with friends on the end of the dock, or playing checkers with Bert. She was content with her life and the family she had at The Hideaway, and I couldn’t bring myself to shatter the peace.

  Her question about love made me realize I’d put myself—and her—into a bind by not laying out the truth and letting her decide how to feel. Instead, I’d chosen the lens through which she’d view her family. But my daughter had asked me about love, and the only true love I knew was William, so I told her the truth.

  “It was electric, like a thousand butterflies in my chest or a thousand balloons flying free. Sometimes being apart was even better than being with him, because I could anticipate seeing him. When we’d finally see each other again, the air between us would crackle and snap, and I couldn’t cross the room fast enough to be next to him.”

  It had been a long while since I’d thought of those first weeks with William. Was that all love was? Electricity, excitement, and anticipation? No, not all.

  “That’s how it felt, but love is a choice you make in your head too. I knew I was in love with your father because I couldn’t imagine my future without him. I didn’t want to imagine it. He became such a part of me that I knew if he wasn’t there, I’d lose a part of myself too.”

  “Did you? Lose a part of yourself?”

  “A small part,” I said. “But I had you, and you opened my heart up in ways I never expected. You, my dear, were a balm for that wound. So were our house and our friends. I have a lot of good things in my life. But I still haven’t forgotten him.”

  We walked in silence a few moments before she spoke. “I’m definitely not in love with him.” She might as well have said, “I’d rather not have chicken for dinner tonight.” My Jenny, so uncomplicated.

  “Who is Mark Kupek?” I asked.

  “Just a boy,” she answered.

  I laughed and put my arm around her thin shoulders. My sweet girl. “That’s how it is—they’re always ‘just a boy,’ until they’re not.”

  The church service was much like I expected it to be—lots of flowered hats, big smiles, hand-clapping hymns, and a good old fiery sermon peppered with “Mm-hmm” and “Preach it” from the congregation.

  But something happened during the prayer time. After lifting up every injury and ailment in the congregation and the tribulations of every possible extended family member, the preacher stopped and called for a time of silent prayer. His voice lost its showman’s edge and grew raspy and honest.

  “I’m sensing there are folks here who need one-on-one time with God. No sweaty preacher up here spouting off about everything they should be thinking or feeling—just you and God. If that’s you, I encourage you to close your eyes right now and listen.” The organist started up with a melancholy tune that drew congregants to the front altar like a magnet. My butt stayed planted on the pew. “If you hear God’s still, small voice, don’t worry about me or anyone sitting around you. I just ask you to listen to what He might have to say to you this morning.”

  The church was quiet except for the organ. I closed my eyes and tried to listen for that voice. Since the day Jenny asked me about falling in love with William, I’d been more aware than usual of his shadow trailing me. He’d been gone for years, yet he was still a very real presence in my life. Dot let me know in no uncertain terms that the weight I’d thought I’d hidden well still sat on my shoulders in full view of everyone around me.

  I wasn’t always on the best terms with God, but I was thankful He had given me William at all. If William hadn’t been living at The Hideaway when I moved in, there was no chance I’d still be there now. I would have stayed a few nights, felt the heavy weight of that fancy ring on my finger, and probably gone right back to Mobile and to Robert, continuing to scratch out an existence in the thing we called a marriage.

  But William had been there. And my life was profoundly different because of him and my time at The Hideaway. I was thankful, but Dot was right. I was no longer the twenty-two-year-old I was when I met him. I was almost forty and my right to be a lovestruck girl had passed its expiration date. He was not coming back.

  With my eyes squeezed shut and that organ droning on, I pulled my shoulders back and lifted my chin. God, I know we haven’t talked in a while, but—

  The preacher clapped his hands. “Thank You, Lord, for that time of prayer and silence. Can I get an amen? Mrs. Betty Jo, how about ‘Onward, Christian Soldiers.’”

  Betty Jo fired up the organ again. Mouths opened in song and hands lifted in praise, the time of prayer finished.

  Fine then. I looked up at the rafters and winked. I wasn’t ready to let go anyway.

  40

  MAGS

  1980

  My Jenny found love at eighteen—too young in my eyes, but I quickly realized I had no need to worry. Ed Jenkins was no Robert Van Buren. Ed doted on Jenny, but he also pushed her to challenge herself. At his urging, she enrolled in a culinary program at the community college. She was always helping Bert in the kitchen, but I’d never thought of culinary school. Ed took a bite of her seafood gumbo one night and said, “You need to open a restaurant, Jenny.”

  The idea for Jenny’s Diner grew out of that early evening dinner, consumed on the dock at sunset surrounded by our friends. Once darkness overtook the sun, lightning bugs popped out in the shrubs and trees. From the dock, they made the place look alive.

  Jenny and Ed married less than a year later, and little Sara Margaret arrived ten months after that. Sara had the good fortune of loving, attentive parents and a multitude of “grandparents” who doted on her day and night. As Jenny’s Diner grew in popularity, our job as stand-in parents grew in importance. Bert learned how to operate an Easy-Bake Oven, I became proficient in the rules of Go Fish, and Glory’s knitting needles became fairy
wands in Sara’s little hands. Back then, Sara thought The Hideaway was a magical palace, and I never corrected her because, in a way, it was.

  Sara looked a little like Ed, but a lot like me. She had my skin coloring and dark, rebellious curls. That hair flew behind her as she ran from room to room through the house. She’d flee from anything resembling a brush or hair band, so her hair grew long and wild, especially during the summers when she was out of school and spent most of her time at our house. I sometimes tried to imagine what Sara would look like as a young woman or as an adult, but I couldn’t see anything other than the carefree child before me.

  I got to where I couldn’t allow myself to imagine William coming back for me, or even Jenny, especially once she became a woman with her own family, her own roots. For some reason, it was easier to think of him coming for his granddaughter. Occasionally I’d allow myself the luxury of imagining Sara and William together. I’d give myself over to an afternoon’s worth of a daydream about the two of them finding each other later in life and knowing immediately that something connected them—something potent and essential. They’d be drawn to each other, and they’d trust it, even if they didn’t know why.

  Jenny’s death on the rain-slick highway shattered me. It was unspeakable. Not only had I lost my daughter, but I’d lost the last tie I had to William. I’d loved my daughter for the person she was, and she knew that, but I’d also loved William through my love for her. When Jenny was gone, it felt like he was finally gone too.

  But the real truth was William was gone the minute he made the decision to leave The Hideaway all those years ago. I should have accepted that fact much earlier, but it was easier to hang on. After all, I hadn’t decided what exactly I was going to tell him in his workshop that day. I wasn’t going to ask him to leave—I don’t think I was, anyway. I suppose I thought we’d figure it out together, like he’d said about so many things. I may have made the choice by not outright refusing my father all those years ago, but William took the decision out of my hands by leaving on his own. I don’t know how he knew Robert was back in the picture, but I suppose he did what he thought was honorable.