Buried Seeds

by Donna Meredith

  She stayed in a hotel the last time she visited, and that makes me suspicious. “MacKenzie, how are you set financially?”

  My sister collapses in sobs. “Ted canceled my credit cards and wiped out our bank account. I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

  “The snake!” I sit down beside her and pull her head onto my shoulder. I bet he’s seen The Photo.

  “You’ll stay here with us,” Mom says. “That’s what family is for.”

  “That’s right,” I say.

  “It’ll be fun having the whole family under one roof again,” Mom adds. “When’s the last time that happened?”

  I vow I won’t say one negative word about the situation, but we are already tripping over each other here, what with bouncy seats and diaper pails, differing opinions over television shows, and Deano Martino’s pizza pie songs blaring in the background. The only place I can grade papers in peace is in the bedroom—and that’s only if Dewey hasn’t come in there to stream his own shows. My sister will be one more source of tension in a too-crowded space, but it doesn’t matter. We will make this work.

  I hug Mac tighter. “Yeah, it’ll be fun—like the old days. If it snows, we’ll drag the old saucers out of the barn and slide down the hill behind the house. Remember when we used to do that?”

  My sister smiles half-heartedly and nods. “What about money?”

  “We’ll make do,” Mom says.

  Dewey, who has wandered in to watch this spectacle, mostly in silence until now, speaks up. “First thing tomorrow we’ll get you the best lawyer in the state.”

  Tomorrow—I will be on my way to Charleston. My eyes meet Dewey’s and knowledge flashes between us: I won’t be able to go with them. I am torn. I want to be with my sister. Should be with my sister, yet no way am I letting down my fellow teachers.

  I explain my dilemma to MacKenzie, but instead of disappointment, a small flame glimmers in her eyes. “The lawyer can wait until another day. I want to help you with social media and publicity.”

  “No one is better at campaigns than you, Mac. I’m so sorry for what you’re going through with Ted, but I know you’ll help me figure out tweets and hashtags.” An added bonus: helping me with social media will keep her mind off her troubles while she gets her life sorted out.

  She smiles for the first time tonight.

  After I make sure MacKenzie is settled in with fresh sheets, a blanket, and pillow, I head into the bedroom and find Dewey on his cell making arrangements to pick up a friend’s RV and park it near the garage. When he hangs up, he takes a long slug of beer. “He’ll let us rent it with an option to buy. He’s been wanting to get rid of it anyway. I can run electric out to it, and it could be ready for Trish and the baby right away. Give them a place of their own, sort of. It might take me a few more days, but I think I can run a sewer line from it to the house’s septic system. It’ll be nice and cozy for them.”

  I’m not sure where things stand between us, but clearly he is still part of this family, still fixing whatever is broken. “Thanks. That should be perfect until we figure out where everyone’s gonna end up.”

  Where will everyone end up? Not in D. C. Never. Yet our lives all seem to be at loose ends—jobs, marriages, illness, strikes. I wish I could see the whole tapestry, how all the threads would weave together into our future. One consolation: if there’s strength in numbers, this family ought to be getting pretty darn strong.

  Just then, Dewey upends the beer can and, finding it empty, crushes it in his fist.

  I flinch. The sound hangs in the air like an electrical charge.

  Twenty minutes later, my husband is snoring. Though I am only inches away, the gulf between us feels enormous, an empty space I don’t know how to fill. We haven’t touched each other since I first brought up the strike. I can’t bring myself to reach out first.

  After another half an hour, I get up and tiptoe through the living room, thinking a glass of milk might help me sleep. In the dark Mac calls out that she can’t sleep either. She turns on the light by the sofa. “These springs and mattress are shot. I think it’s the same old sofa Mom had when we were growing up.”

  “Right you are. New plaid upholstery, same weary bones.” I tug on her arm. “Mac, why didn’t you return my phone calls?”

  “Didn’t want to talk about it.”

  I get it. She’s ashamed—and it might be the first time in her life she has reason to be. “Did Ted find out?”

  “Oh, please, he went ballistic. Called me a whore, a liability. He’s dying to be governor.” Mac presses a tissue to her nose, sniffling. “It’s not fair.”

  No, it isn’t. Mac has always played the part of the good wife. Th e good citizen. The super mom. The one time she allows herself to be a mere mortal, she is publicly flayed.

  “He’s cheated for years, and I’ve looked the other way. Tried to focus on his good qualities. He’s a born leader. A good provider. A good father.”

  That’s Mac. Still trying to be the good wife. “A crappy husband.”

  “Yeah.” She sniffles some more. “Not always.”

  “What are you going to do about Th e Photo?”

  “Took your advice and hired a professional to wipe it off the face of the earth.”

  Good. Her kids will never see it. “Are you still seeing the . . .” I am not sure what to call him. “The tennis partner?”

  Her arms pull tight across her abdomen. “I broke it off. He kept pushing me to have plastic surgery.”

  “What? You look fantastic.” We both hear echoes of the words the whole world thinks but doesn’t say aloud about women like us: for a woman your age. Geez, if this man thinks my sister isn’t perfect, heaven only knows what he’d think of me.

  “I don’t feel fantastic. I feel old. He’s a plastic surgeon. First he pressed me to get rid of my stretch marks, and then he suggested I reshape my butt and tits. It got so I didn’t want to take my clothes off in front of him anymore.”

  I shake her arm. “Don’t you dare let that loser reduce you to nothing more than the shape of your body. You are so much more than that.”

  Her smile is so weak it barely moves her cheeks.

  “Mac, you are Chair of the Hospital Fundraising Foundation, Woman’s Club President, and most important of all—” I pause, laying on the full-fledged Drama Queen—“you are my sister.”

  That produces a barely audible chuckle. Her lips part, close again, and then she whispers, “Ted told me about the ring . . . and you.”

  Damn. I swallow the lump in my throat. “I’m sorry. He only told you because he wanted to hurt you. Couples going through divorce pull out every weapon they can find.”

  “Wish you’d told me—way back then.”

  “How could I? You were happy. You would have hated me for ruining it for you. I would have hated me for ruining it for you.”

  She weighs this in silence, and finally admits, “Yeah, I would have.”

  She pulls my scrapbook from the shelf under the coffee table. She’s had enough dissection of Ted for one night. “What’s this?”

  I explain Mom’s gift. We share memories stirred by childhood photos: Easter egg hunts, snowmen with carrot noses and rock eyes, and carefully wrapped presents under Christmas trees. We giggle over Halloween costumes. I feel something shift between us.

  When Mac sees the photo of Val Martin, she swears I have his nose.

  “Horrors! Really?” I turn and swivel on one knee to check out my schnoz in the mirror hanging behind the sofa. Sure enough, Val could be the source of my gigantic proboscis. If only I could return the gift .

  Mom schleps out of her bedroom, wrapped in a fuzzy pink robe I’d given her. “I thought I heard voices and I couldn’t sleep anyway. Is it okay if I join you, or is this a private party?”

  “Definitely okay.” I don’t know how I’m going to drive to Charleston in the morning, but a second wind has caught my sails tonight.

  I scoot over and invite Mom to sit between us. She wan
ts to know how far along I am in Rosella’s story. I show her where I left off and she smiles. “Oh, you’re coming up on the best part of the story. Would you read it aloud?”

  When she smiles, I would do anything for her. Drive her to the moon and back.

  And so I begin.

  Rosella

  San Francisco, 1906

  Mindy Kenneson passed me a rough sketch of her ideas for window displays supporting the National American Woman Suffrage Association. “We can get all the local stores to put these up to show their support.”

  Nellie leans over my shoulder to see the sketch. “The more, the better. There’s strength in numbers. We have to push harder for voting rights, especially here in the city.”

  I passed the sketch along to one of Alexandra’s friends. About ten of us were gathered in at the Underwoods’ just down the street from my new home, the house that Jack built.

  We were waiting for the other NAWSA members to arrive. When chatter turned to fashion, my thoughts wandered. What color to wear wasn’t an issue for me, since I had worn only mourning dress since Jack’s death three months earlier. I was beginning to appreciate the practicality of dark skirts that hid dirt—but not dog fur.

  I had moved into my new house without Jack. It was so unfair that he never got to live in it after he’d put so much energy into the planning. Yet if there was one lesson I had learned in my eighteen and a half years it was this: no one could predict what the future held. Jack had been right about my needing a change of scenery. Facing the empty nursery every day rubbed my face in Ben’s absence.

  Even so, I still enjoyed a morning cup of tea with Nellie twice a week.

  Finally everyone arrived. Alexandra paraded her children, Lydia and Will, through the parlor to greet us, and then she shooed them and the nanny outside for a walk. After tea and cookies, Alexandra called the meeting to order, but instead of talking up suffrage, Alexandra started in on eugenics again. My teeth clenched. I could feel my face flushing as she repeated the now-familiar litany: how the Italians and Chinese were taking over the town and breeding like rabbits, how socially transmitted diseases were spread by these degenerates in the lower social classes, how carriers should be involuntarily sterilized. How only the Underwoods and their kind deserved to have children.

  Mindy knew how I felt about eugenics, and I was grateful when she interrupted. “Could we please stick to women’s rights? This is supposed to be a meeting on women’s rights.”

  Alexandra’s smile was so laced with condescension I longed to slap her. “The meeting is in my home, so I will talk about whatever I please.”

  “Not all of us support eugenics,” Mindy said. “It’s a different issue.”

  “But surely you can see society can’t go on this way, letting inferior—”

  I had heard enough and cut her off. “I disagree strongly, Alexandra. There’s not a finer man in San Francisco than—” I remembered Val Martin’s Italian heritage was supposed to be secret—“an immigrant who boarded with us once,” I finished lamely.

  Nellie jumped in. “Diseases have nothing to do with social class. Rich and poor alike can get sick.”

  Bless Nellie for realizing how I would feel about being classified as one undeserving of children!

  Alexandra’s smile narrowed into a grimace. “Anyone who doesn’t appreciate my conversation is certainly free to leave at any time.”

  Nellie stood and pulled on her gloves. “Fine.”

  Mindy and I followed her out the door. I hated the disagreement for Nellie’s sake, and said so as we marched up the street to my house. “This is an unfortunate estrangement. Alexandra is your oldest friend.”

  Nellie’s chin tilted upward. “Oldest, not dearest. She wasn’t supportive when my husband died. You must have noticed she never visited, just sent her card. Besides, I won’t stand for anyone putting down our Val.”

  I heard what she didn’t say—and I appreciated it: She wouldn’t stand for anyone putting me down either, even if said person didn’t know I was included in the category of degenerates who had experienced socially transmitted disease.

  “I never did like her,” Mindy admitted. “She and that little girl of hers are snooty.”

  True, but I held my tongue. I invited them in for tea and further gossip. Five other ladies who’d been at Alexandra’s soon came knocking at my door. They, too, wanted to make plans for the next speakers promoting rights for women.

  We had barely begun, when a frantic rapping sent me scurrying to the door once again. It was another lady from Alexandra’s, Audine Hall. Her sobs alarmed me, but I had no time to ask what was wrong, for she announced it immediately.

  “We just got the news. Aunt Susan is dead!”

  Much commotion and distress followed. Susan B. Anthony was well known by most of the ladies; many had met her personally on one of her frequent visits to California. I had not been so fortunate.

  “Whatever will we do without her?” Nellie moaned.

  Agreement traveled through the room until Mindy interrupted.

  “What we shall do is carry on. We are her lieutenants. Failure is impossible!”

  I stood and raised my cup of tea and led a toast to the Mother of the Movement. “Failure is impossible!”

  April 18, 1906

  I extinguished the candle before opening the back door and setting the dog down. “Hurry up, Little Cuss, do your business.” The name I’d given the dog still tickled me every time it rolled off my tongue, even though I’d come to adore the little devil. Only a hint of light softened the sky, but I was in a hurry because I had plans for the day.

  After tea with Nellie, I had an art lesson scheduled at a school that served the children of factory workers. I charged no fee. I simply wanted to be around the children, to give them appreciation of the natural world. I took simple objects—pinecone, shells, a beetle in a jar—and taught them to draw. Seeing the wonder in their eyes was all the reward required. Besides, I wasn’t in bad shape financially. Jack had paid for the house as it was being built. Not much was left in the bank when he died, but the Kennesons had recommended me to several of their friends, so I made enough money painting portraits to cover my expenses.

  The sweet blossoms of my lemon tree scented the morning air. With shears, I clipped a branch, careful not to snag a finger on the thorns. The limb offered so many shapes and textures for the children to study and draw: shiny leaves, white blossoms, silky stamens, spiky thorns.

  Little Cuss sniffed about the new shrubbery and perennials I had planted around the foundation. A Rose of Sharon and hollyhocks because my mother had grown them. Sasanqua camellias, a gift from my new neighbors, the Grays. A pair of plum trees. The large lot allowed a bit of greenery in my life again. Jack had come to understand my need for it. One of his good points. He had many, but I refused to romanticize him just because he’d died young. Memories of that woman haunting the street in front of Nellie’s still hung fresh in my mind, her abundant hair flouncing as she walked, that sun-darkened skin.

  Lost in these musings, I had ignored Little Cuss, who was shoveling furiously with both front paws at the loose soil around the plum tree.

  “Cussy-Poo, stop that.” I lunged for him, but he edged away, ears drawn back, tail curled under. He yapped, which wasn’t unusual in itself, but he held his whole body stiff, as if bracing against an unseen threat. At least no threat I could see. No cats. No thunderstorm approaching. What was the crazy dog’s problem this time? He had one problem or another every morning, a constant source of amusement and aggravation.

  “Hush—you’ll wake the neighbors.” It was only 5 a.m. and not my choice to be up quite so early, but the lunatic dog refused to sleep in. Ever.

  I reached for him again and he let me pick him up, the bark transforming into a pitiful whine. Suddenly he let out such a shrill yelp, I nearly dropped him. He clawed my wrapper, scrambling closer to my face. He was shaking all over, every little nerve a-jitter. “What’s wrong, baby-poo?”


  I cradled him against my chest and rocked him a bit, my face buried against the soft fur. When I drew back a little, I eyed his dirt-caked paws with dismay, and was doubly dismayed to discover how much filth he’d transferred to my wrapper. “You little rat! Th is means a good brushing before we go to Nellie’s. That’ll teach you to dig up my plants.”

  Nellie would keep the dog while I visited the elementary school, though on occasion I kept the puppy with me because the children loved petting him. I sniggered, remembering the teacher’s shocked expression when she first heard the dog’s name. Well-practiced by then in explaining the dog’s name to neighbors and my maid, I smoothed things over: “Little Cuss is short for Little Cousin. I named him after my favorite little cousin.” The relief on people’s faces amused me. Only Nellie knew the truth—and she agreed the name fit the dog perfectly.

  I had one hand on the back door when a great roar—not quite like any thunder I’d ever heard—began in the distance and swelled like the approach of a train, only much, much louder. Abruptly the ground shifted up and down in waves, shooting sideways at the same time. I was thrown to the ground, screaming as I fell, barely able to hang onto to my terrified dog; he was shivering, digging his claws into my chest. Terror surged through my body. I was going to die and Little Cuss was going to die with me. I couldn’t even protect a dog. The earth bucked like an unbroken horse, cracking the bones of houses, rocking the street beds. Animals and humans screeched in horror. Neighbors’ houses looked like a row of stiff -legged cloggers, bobbing up and down. Maybe this was the end of the earth, the apocalypse predicted in the Bible.

  Just as quickly as the shaking had started, it was over. Staggering to my feet, I plunged inside the house with Little Cuss. My heart in my throat, I felt a surge of energy through every pore, propelling me forward.

  No sooner had I entered than a second wave, stronger than the first, hit. I grabbed anything relatively stable in my path for balance. A wall, a door frame, a chair. But nothing seemed an iota more stable than my own buckling legs. In shock, I absorbed these strange facts: the kitchen table was dancing a jig; one of the ladderback chairs had toppled over; my new china rattled in the cupboard; a goblet on the huntboard skittered to the edge and shattered on the tile fl oor; the chandelier above the dining room table swayed, its crystals tinkling nervously; the framed oval photo of Ben tumbled from its easel and the easel itself collapsed; a potted philodendron in the living room window crashed to the floor spraying dirt across the red oak planks and onto the imported rugs Jack had ordered.