by Ann Tatlock
“No. From what I understand he was waiting for her to contact him, if she ever forgave him and decided to join him up north. But she never did.”
“Oh.” Laney sipped her tea slowly and thoughtfully.
“Did she tell you much about what happened?” Jane asked.
“Some, yes. I mean, I knew the story. It wasn’t a secret or anything. Even my kids know about it, like it’s just part of our family lore now.”
“Well, why do you think she was never able to forgive him?”
“Oh, honey, I know she—”
“Laney,” Clapper called as he opened the front door. “I’m getting Truman’s and Jane’s suitcases from the car. Remind me which rooms you’ve put them in.”
Laney named the rooms, and then asked, “Do you need help?”
Clapper waved a hand. “Naw. Truman tells me they’ve got only one suitcase each. I think I can handle it.”
He went off to dig the luggage out of the Honda as Truman stepped out onto the porch. He looked at Jane expectantly.
Jane knew what he was asking. “Seth has MRSA,” she said.
Truman’s face remained placid, but Jane recognized the flash of fear in his eyes. “What does Mrs. Ballantine say they’re doing for him?”
“Everything they can.”
“When was he diagnosed?”
“The report came back from the lab a couple hours ago.”
Truman nodded, rubbed at the side of his face. “Do you want to go back?”
Jane looked out over the lawn again. Before she could respond, Laney said, “Listen, honey, if you feel you need to go, then go. Like I said, Truman is welcome to stay as long as he wants.”
“I’m not sure what to do, Laney. Jewel didn’t ask me to come. She didn’t say I should come, as though she thought . . .” She couldn’t finish. She looked up at Truman again. She wanted to hear him say that Seth would be all right.
Instead, he asked, “What’s in your heart, Jane?”
It seemed an odd question, and yet she understood. “I feel like I’m supposed to be here. I think I need to stay.”
“Then that’s what you should do.”
Clapper came back with a suitcase in each hand and bounded up the porch steps. “All right, Dr. Rockaway, if you’ll just follow me, I’ll show you to your room. We’ve got you on the ground floor so you don’t have to bother with any stairs.”
“My arthritic knees and I appreciate that, Clapper. And now listen, it’s Truman. None of this Dr. Rockaway stuff, all right?”
Truman followed Clapper inside, and when the porch was quiet again Laney turned to Jane and asked, “Are you tired after the drive down, honey?”
Jane sighed deeply. “Laney,” she said, “I think I’ve been tired for a very long time.”
“Anybody would be, after going through what you’re going through with Seth. Maybe that’s why you’re here. You can get some rest over the next couple of days, see if you can’t get to feeling refreshed.”
“That sounds more wonderful than you can know.”
“Come on, then. I’ll show you to your room.”
It was called the Rose Room, for the rose-colored wallpaper and the rose-patterned bedspread and drapes. The bed was an antique sleigh bed, with a night table on either side. The room was also furnished with a mirrored dresser, two wing chairs, and a writing desk beneath the window that overlooked the front lawn. As with all the rooms in the inn, the Rose Room had its own bath.
“It’s beautiful,” Jane said.
“I was hoping you’d like it,” Laney replied with a satisfied smile.
“Oh, I do.”
“And here’s the bellhop with your luggage,” Clapper announced as he entered the room. He settled the suitcase beside the bed and smiled at Jane. “Truman’s taking a rest downstairs, and if you’ll excuse me, I’m afraid I’ve got to get back to the front desk.”
“Of course, Clapper. Listen, thank you so much for everything.”
“Well, we’re just glad to have you and the good doctor here. Make yourself at home. Supper’s at six o’clock.”
When Clapper left, Jane turned her attention back to the room. The afternoon sunlight slanted in through the window and draped itself across the bed. Jane noticed the light’s reflection in the mirror, and as she turned toward the dresser her eyes were drawn to something familiar, a wallet-sized photograph in a tarnished metal frame. She stepped to the dresser and picked it up. “Laney, how on earth did you get this old school photo of me?”
“Your mother gave it to me.”
Jane turned back to look at Laney. “She did?”
Laney nodded. “Yes. You were probably . . . what? Ten or so?”
“Nine, I think. I had that dreadful haircut when I was in fifth grade. Remember that? I never looked good with bangs.”
“It wasn’t a dreadful haircut. You looked as sweet as ever.”
Jane laughed out loud. “Well, thanks for thinking so.”
“I wasn’t the only one who thought so, Janie.”
“What do you mean?”
“Look at the back of the photo. It’s all right. You can take it out of the frame.”
Jane pulled the back off the frame and slid the picture out. Turning it over, she read aloud, “My beautiful daughter, Jane. Age nine.”
For a moment she didn’t speak. Finally she asked, “Mom wrote that?”
“Of course. You have to ask?”
“But why did she give it to you?”
“I believe it was tucked into a Christmas card one year.”
“Mom gave you Christmas cards? I didn’t know she even realized you were there in the house. For that matter, Laney, I think she hardly even realized I was there.”
“She knew you were there, honey. She just didn’t know how to be a mother to you.”
Jane looked at the photo of her own nine-year-old face, the eyes distant, the mouth downturned. She had a vague memory of the photographer telling her to smile, but she wouldn’t do it. “I certainly wasn’t beautiful,” she said softly.
“You were to your mamma,” Laney countered.
“She never told me.”
“She was a woman who could never find the right words. You had to listen to her speak through small gestures, like this.” Laney lifted a hand to the words penned on the back of the photograph.
Jane gazed at her mother’s handwriting another moment, then slid the photo back into the frame. Before she could settle it on the dresser, Laney said, “You keep that, honey. Take it home with you.”
“But—”
“I’ve had it on my dresser all these years, but I want you to have it. The frame too. All I ask is that you send me a new one, a picture of yourself all grown up. And it’d be nice if you were smiling.”
Jane smiled now, wistfully. “Thank you, Laney.”
Laney put her arms around Jane and hugged her close. Drawing back she said, “Now, you get some of that rest you came here for, and then come on downstairs when you’re ready.”
Jane nodded. “What are you going to do?”
“I’ve got to track down Eugene, see if he can come over this evening with some of his work.”
“His work?”
Laney moved to the door, turned around. “I think he might have something for Truman.”
“You do? What is it?”
But Laney didn’t stay to answer. She quietly shut the Rose Room’s door. Jane listened to her footsteps moving hurriedly down the uncarpeted hall.
39
When Laney’s footsteps receded and the inn was quiet, Jane looked at the photograph, still in her hand.
My beautiful daughter, Jane.
If only Meredith Morrow had said the words out loud. Even just once. But she never had. Jane would have remembered if she had.
And yet . . .
Jane moved to the dresser and settled the photo back in its place. She unpacked her suitcase, putting her change of clothing in the top dresser drawer and arranging toothpaste, tooth
brush, lotions, and makeup on the bathroom counter. When that was done, she sat on the edge of the bed and kicked off her sandals. She thought briefly of calling the Penlands’ neighbor, the one who was taking care of Roscoe and Juniper, but she decided to do that later. First, a little sleep. She lay down on top of the covers, sighing her way into the cradle of the bed.
“Mom,” she said aloud. She hadn’t said the word in years. In speaking of other people’s mothers, yes, but not her own. “Mom, did you really think I was pretty?”
Did you love me?
That was the real question, after all. The one that had haunted Jane all her life.
Though it was always there, like white noise at the back of her mind, she’d never brought it out to examine it. She had always been afraid of the question. No, that wasn’t quite right. She had been afraid of the answer.
When Meredith Morrow was Jane’s age, when she was twenty-five years old, she’d been in Hollywood making movies, making people notice her, making a name for herself. In a few more years, it would all be gone. As Laney had said, after the roles dried up, no one worshiped her anymore.
Jane saw her mother in their apartment in the Rayburn House, patting the couch where she sat, beckoning Jane to come. They’d sit there side by side, watching the old movies on videotape. Every time her mother sighed, which was often, Jane smelled the stench of alcohol on her breath.
“Your mother used to be somebody, Jane.” She’d speak so quietly, Jane had to lean closer to hear. “I used to be somebody, but not anymore.”
Jane never understood. Always there were the words, right on the tip of her tongue: But you’re somebody to me, Mom! I love you.
Jane wondered now why she had never said the words aloud. Shyness? Fear of ridicule? A certain bitterness that had been a padlock on her heart?
Yet it would have been such a simple thing to do. It might even have mattered. Those few words might have made some difference.
If Jane had spoken, Meredith Morrow might have spoken back.
I love you, Mommy.
I love you too, Janie.
But the words were never said out loud.
“Well, I guess we’re even, Mom,” Jane murmured to the empty room. “But I’ll forgive you, if you forgive me.”
My beautiful daughter, Jane.
She shut her eyes and drifted off to sleep.
———
When she awoke, the afternoon had passed. It was almost five o’clock. Voices drifted up from below, from somewhere out in the front yard. Jane rose from the bed and looked out. Truman was walking up the flagstone path with Bess, small and sprightly, on his arm. With them was a young man, tall, dark-skinned, lanky, and handsome. He carried a laptop under his arm. He was leading the way. Jane hadn’t seen him in years, but she knew he had to be Eugene Jackson.
She ran a comb through her hair, slipped her sandals back on, stuffed her cell phone into the pocket of her Capri pants, and hurried downstairs. She met the trio while they were still in the front hall.
“There you are, Jane,” Truman greeted her. “We thought you were going to sleep right through supper.”
“Jane honey,” Bess said, “I want you to meet my nephew. This is Eugene Jackson, Laney’s boy.”
Eugene extended a long narrow hand. “How you doing?” he said.
Jane shook his hand. “I remember you from way back when. Your mom tells me you’ve got an internship in California.”
“That’s right,” Eugene answered shyly. “We head out to L.A. on Saturday.”
“That’s just great,” Jane continued. “Congratulations.”
As Eugene nodded, Truman spoke up. “He’s going to show us some of his work tonight. This young man’s been learning how to make documentaries.”
“Oh! You’re showing us one of your films?” Jane asked.
“Not exactly. Just one of the outtakes from something I worked on in college.” Eugene glanced at Truman, back at Jane. “Mom thought you and Dr. Rockaway might be interested.”
“In your bloopers?” Bess guffawed. “Now why would these fine folks be interested in your bloopers, Eugene?”
Eugene shrugged. “I’m not showing any bloopers, Aunt Bess. Just an outtake.”
“Well, an outtake means it didn’t get in the film, right?”
“That’s right.”
“And it didn’t get in because someone made a mistake—”
“Not necessarily—”
“So maybe you should have sent it to America’s Funniest Home Videos, won us some money—”
“But it’s not funny, Aunt Bess, it’s—”
“Well, whatever it is,” Jane interrupted, “what time is it showing?”
“Right after supper, I guess. Mom just told me to set up everything in the front room where the television is.”
“We’ll be there,” Truman said. “And we’d like front-row seats, please.”
Eugene chuckled. “No problem, Dr. Rockaway.”
Truman smiled at Eugene, and then held out an elbow to Bess. “You were going to show me those pictures of the grandkids, remember?”
Bess took his arm. “Let’s go sit in the library where it’s comfortable.”
Together, they ambled down the hall as Eugene turned to Jane with a shrug. “Guess they’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”
“Looks like it,” Jane agreed.
“Well, I’m going to go get set up in the front room. See you later.”
“All right. See you.”
Jane took a last look at Truman and Bess and couldn’t help smiling. The joyous feeling, though, was short-lived, interrupted by the ringing of her phone. Jane looked at the number of the incoming call. A shiver of dread ran through her when she recognized the number as Jewel’s.
40
Jewel?” Jane’s heart pounded, leaving her light-headed.
“Hello, Jane. Yes, it’s Jewel.”
“Is everything all right? How’s Seth?”
“He’s holding his own. In fact, his temperature has dropped—just a little.” Jewel sounded small and weary and faraway. “They’re watching him like a hawk, of course.”
“Okay.” Jane’s mind whirled, trying to process the meaning behind Jewel’s words. “So he’s getting better?”
A long sigh. “I don’t know. At least he’s not getting worse. Of course, we’re praying he’ll pull through all right.”
Jane nodded. Yes, she must pray too. She must summon up some faith and pray for Seth. “If I could, I would pray him all the way back to the way he was before he was wounded,” she said.
“Oh, Jane, so would I,” Jewel said. “I hate to see him suffer. If only—” Her voice caught, and she couldn’t finish.
“Are you going to be all right, Jewel?”
A short sob on the other end of the line, and then a deep breath. “Yes, I’ll be fine. We have to trust God to do what’s right.”
“Yes.” Jane wished she had the simple faith that Jewel had and that Jewel had passed on to Seth. If ever such faith was needed, now was the time. “Jewel?”
“Yes, Jane?”
“Do you want me to come back?”
After a long pause Jewel said, “No. Stay until Friday, just as you planned. Unless Seth gets worse.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. I’m still hoping he’ll turn the corner and be out of ICU before you get back.”
“I hope so too.”
All through dinner, Jane feigned attention to the conversations going on around her. Truman was more animated than she had ever seen him, reminiscing with Bess about the past, talking with Clapper about the present, conjecturing with Eugene about the future. Jane got lost in the varied branches of dialogue as her mind went back again and again to her few minutes on the phone with Jewel. How to pray? Was it enough simply to ask? Dear God, please make Seth whole. Those were the only words she could think to say. But did they mean anything? And would God hear and respond?
Jane looked at Truman. A
s Truman Rockaway knew only too well, there were some prayers not even God could answer.
After dinner, the small group moved to the front room where Eugene had connected his laptop to the wide-screen television. Laney taped a handwritten note to the French doors that separated the room from the front hall: “Private party. Please do not disturb.”
From the easy chair where she sat, Jane studied the faces of everyone assembled in a variety of chairs in front of the TV. Laney appeared to be trying hard to conceal her excitement, but she couldn’t keep the corners of her mouth from turning up. Clapper looked amused, as though he shared Laney’s anticipation. Truman, sitting in a wing chair, his cane at his side, appeared mildly expectant, ready to praise Laney’s son for a job well done, whatever it was he’d done. Only Bess scowled slightly, a frown of puzzlement weighing down her brow.
“I don’t know what all the secrecy is about,” she complained. “Why doesn’t somebody just tell us what we’re watching?”
Eugene looked up from his laptop long enough to say, “I’m just about to do that, Aunt Bess, if you’ll give me half a chance.”
Clapper added, looking at Truman, “She was never a woman known for her patience, Doc.”
“Hush, Clapper,” Bess countered. “I’ve got more patience than you, Laney, and Eugene combined. I just don’t always choose to use it.”
Truman raised his brows and suppressed a smile.
Eugene snorted out a laugh. “Let us know if you ever choose to start using it, Aunt Bess,” he said. “That’ll be a red-letter day around here.”
“All right, Eugene,” Laney said. “Are you about ready there?”
“I’m ready now, Mamma, if Aunt Bess will just let me get started.”
“Don’t be blaming me for the holdup, young man—”
“Shh, Aunt Bess,” Laney chided. “Let Eugene speak.”
“Well!” Bess pressed her lips together, arresting any errant words that might be left on the tip of her tongue.
As the corner of Truman’s mouth twitched, Jane chuckled softly under her breath. Clapper’s cough barely concealed his laughter.
Eugene looked out at his audience and said, “All right, now. Mamma called me earlier today and asked me to show you this. Took me the better part of the afternoon to find it, but here it is.” He looked down at his laptop then up again. “Oh, I’d better explain. This was filmed while I was doing a project on Jim Crow in the Upcountry. I interviewed a lot of the older folks around town here and some even down in Greenville, the ones who remembered the days before civil rights. It was for a filmmaking class I took a few years ago, back in college. What you’re going to see wasn’t in the final documentary. I left it out because . . . well, you’ll see.”
