Chapter TWO
For supper, Marge served chicken pie made with a real crust, baked ham, candied sweet potatoes, green beans and hot biscuits with homemade blackberry jam. I had some of everything. “How do you stay so skinny eating like this?” I asked, pushing myself away from a chocolate cake shaped like a bus, and almost as big. We were celebrating Hartley’s third birthday, and he’s obsessed with anything with wheels.
“Chase after these three for a while, and you’ll see.” My cousin served her youngest the first piece, which he plunged into with both fists.
“All of Daddy’s side’s like that,” my cousin Violet said, watching Marge slide wedges of cake onto paper plates with Thomas the Tank Engine on them. “Wouldn’t you know I’d take after Mama?” She lifted her fork as if preparing for a relay, and dug into the icing.
“I hadn’t noticed that slowing you any,” Ma Maggie said.
Ma Maggie is my grandmother on Mama’s side and Violet’s first cousin, although they act more like sisters since they were born three months apart and raised next door to each other.
Violet didn’t answer except to raise a forkful of cake to my grandmother in sort of a salute. I guess by now those two have learned to shove each other’s comments in the background, kind of like the sound of the dishwasher running or the babbling of those talk show people on TV.
Now Violet dipped a corner of her napkin into a glass of water to dab at a smear of fudge on her dress. “Will you look what I’ve gone and done. Oughta wear a bib! Got this dress on sale at Ivey’s when I was in Charlotte last year, and I know I’ll never find another like it.”
My cousin’s dress was a shade of purple, as were all her clothes. This one was a crinkley rayon caftan with plum-colored flowers that may or may not have been wisteria blossoms en masse along the hem.
“Ivey’s Department Store hasn’t been in Charlotte for at least seven years,” Ma Maggie mumbled into her coffee.
“Why do you wear purple all the time?” Marge’s son Darby asked, ignoring a threatening look from his mother. “Is that the only color you have?”
“Of course not, Darby. But I like to wear this color because of my name, you see—Violet . . . and because my dear friend Hodges always liked it on me. He said it became me.”
Cousin Violet’s “dear friend” Hodges had courted her for close to twenty years before expiring of rheumatic fever soon after I was born.
“Your name isn’t Violet, and you know it,” Ma Maggie said. “You just made that up.”
“How would you like to be named Ida Clare?” Cousin Violet washed down her cake with a swig of sweetened iced tea. “Ida’ clare, I believe it’s going to rain . . . Ida’clare, can you believe it’s almost Christmas already? Ida’clare, that boy must’ve grown a foot . . .” She shrugged. “I could go on and on. It got to where it was enough to make a preacher lose his religion!”
Darby and Jon elbowed each other and giggled.
“You’re excused,” Marge told her two older sons. “Go directly to the bathroom and wash your hands. Do not pass go and do not collect two hundred dollars.”
Josie looked from her cousins to me as if she couldn’t decide which was worse, being teased by her male relatives or remaining at the table with boring adults.
The boys won out. “You’re excused, too,” I said, and I heard the screen door slam as she slipped out after them.
“When are Lum and Leona getting here?” Ma Maggie asked of nobody in particular. Lum (short for Columbus) was Ma Maggie’s “baby boy.” He would be fifty-two on his next birthday.
“Sometime tomorrow,” Marge said. “They’re staying with Uncle Ernest.”
“Then God help ’em,” Violet said. “If they want to eat, they’ll have to order in. Ella’s gotten so blind Ernest says she put salt in the sugar bowl. And careless, too—why, I saw her in town last week in this old black dress so dirty it looked like it had done been wore to four country funerals. Lord only knows how old she is!”
“They’re a pair, aren’t they?” my grandmother said. “Ernest is getting deaf as a post, and Ella can’t see two feet in front of her, but she’s been there so long, she’s practically a fixture. I expect Ernest will keep her on as long as she wants to stay. Besides,” she added, “I don’t think it matters to Leona whether she eats or not—always on some kind of diet. Looks undernourished, if you ask me. It’s not healthy.”
Cousin Violet said she agreed and helped herself to just a tiny bit more cake.
“I expect Ernest is lonely up there in that big old house with nobody but poor old Ella for company,” Ma Maggie said.
“Might not be that way for long,” Violet said with an “I know something” smirk.
My grandmother peered over her bifocals. “What do you mean?”
“Been keeping company, I hear, with that little yellow-haired teacher they hired to take Myrtis Tisdale’s place.” Miss Tisdale, who had taught Latin at Bishop’s Bridge High since Gaul was divided into three parts, had died back in the winter. Rumor was that she died twenty years ago and they just propped her behind a desk.
“Since when?” I could tell Ma Maggie didn’t believe her.
“Since soon after she came here, I reckon. She’s even got him going to church.” Violet hid her magenta lips with a napkin, but I could tell she was smiling.
“Ernest? Our Ernest? I think you’re exaggerating. How come I haven’t heard about it?”
“Maybe if you’d go to church once in a while, Maggie Brown, you’d know what was going on,” Violet told her.
“Surely you don’t mean Belinda Donahue? Why, she’s young enough to be his daughter!”
“Ernest seems to like them that way,” Violet reminded her. “Anyway, the woman’s fifty if she’s a day.”
Sitting between them, I felt the situation might soon call for a referee and, since I wasn’t so inclined, signaled desperately to Marge.
“Actually, Uncle Ernest isn’t exactly alone up there. There’s that fellow who rents the guesthouse,” Marge said as she struggled to de-chocolate the hands and face of her squirming birthday child. “Casey . . . whatever his name is, but I doubt if he’s much company.”
“At least he takes care of the lawn,” Violet said. “That big old place is too much for Ernest. I keep telling him he oughta move into town.” She shook purple curls. “Of course, we all know that will never happen.”
Through the lace curtains of Marge’s dining room window I could see her two boys and Josie run to meet Marge’s husband, Burdette, as he pulled into the driveway after visiting a sick parishioner. My cousin Marge was the last person in the world I thought would marry a preacher—and a Baptist one at that—but she and Burdette not only accepted the other’s customs, but seemed to relish the difference. I only hope the members of the Jumping Branch Baptist never get wind of that St. Patrick’s Day back in college when my cousin colored her hair green and went wading in her altogether in the campus fountain. Burdette Cranford, although he wouldn’t admit to condoning it, had had a great laugh when Marge finally told him about her wild college prank. He was a giant of a man with ruddy cheeks, calm blue eyes and a laugh you could hear in the next county. Josie, who at two couldn’t pronounce his name, still called him “Cudin’ Bird” and thought he could do just about anything.
“Ernest is downright lucky to have somebody like Casey want to live in that old rundown cottage,” Violet said. “Of course, he grumbled because he had to patch the roof and put in new plumbing.”
“Who’s Casey?” I asked as Burdette and the children raced across the lawn. Or at least the children raced; Burdette sort of lumbered, but I couldn’t help thinking how refreshing it would be if Ned loosened up that way with Josie. I wouldn’t care if he lumbered or not.
“Some kind of writer,” Marge said. “Sort of keeps to himself. Supposed to be working on a book, I think. Showed up back in February looking for a place to stay in exchange for keeping the grass cut and whatever upkeep Uncle Ernest needs for the shrubbery and such.”
“What shrubbery?” Violet made a face at Hartley, who made one back. “Why, if he doesn’t watch out, the woods are going to take over the whole place! Not much yard left, except that pretty little garden Rose planted, and the scrub pine and honeysuckle vines are pushing in on it.”
“Maybe Deedee can get the Belle Fleurs Garden Club to take care of it after they get through clearing off that old Remeth Cemetery,” Marge said.
My grandmother spoke up. “I’ll believe that when I see it! Why, that old church must’ve burned more than fifty years ago.”
Marge shrugged. “Supposed to begin sometime this week. Deedee’s even talked Burdette into helping.”
“Poor Ernest. I wouldn’t think he’d want any reminders of Rose after she left him like she did,” Violet said. “Still, it’s sweet of him to try to keep up her garden. She did have a way with growing things.”
“Pity that marriage didn’t work out,” Ma Maggie said, trying unsuccessfully to contain a wiggling Hartley on her lap. “All these years alone . . . how long’s it been now? Close to forty years.”
“Well, Ida’clare,” I said, mostly to Violet, as I rose to help Marge clear the table. “Imagine that!”
“Go on, you bad thing!” Violet giggled. “But I do wish Ernest had tried a little harder! If I remember right, Rose was right pretty. I always thought Goat Kidd had a crush on her,” she said, referring to our uncle’s longtime friend and sparring partner, Judge Barton Kidd. “She was awful young, though; too young for Ernest. I expect the loneliness just got to her, living way up there like that. Couldn’t boil water without scorchin’ it, and Lord, she had the biggest feet I ever saw—but Ernest sure seemed taken with her; never saw him so smitten. Why, I couldn’t believe it when I heard she’d up and left!”
“Didn’t like living so far away from town, is all Ernest ever told me,” Ma Maggie said. “We never did know where she went from here.” She sighed. “Sure knocked the stuffing out of Ernest. I don’t reckon he’ll ever get over it.”
“Then why didn’t he go after her?” I asked. “My gosh, they were only married a little over a year, weren’t they? Must not have been as dejected as you make him sound.”
“Guess he figured a little bit went a long way,” Marge hollered from the kitchen doorway.
“Marge!” This from Cousin Violet.
“Naturally, I meant marriage,” Marge said, darting a look at me. Of course, I knew she hadn’t. “And I’m glad if Uncle Ernest has found somebody new. He’s entitled.”
Violet turned up her nose and grunted, and my grandmother waved her hand as if she could scat Marge’s opinion away. “Speaking of marriage,” she said to me, “what’s this ridiculous thing about you and Ned?”
My grandmother spoke in her “I’m so disappointed in you” tone, and reached for my hand as I passed her chair.
“I’m afraid it isn’t so ridiculous,” I said, resisting an impulse to pull away. “We needed some time apart, that’s all. And after that . . . well, we’ll just see what happens.”
From the look on my grandmother’s face, I could tell she thought that was nonsense with a capital N. “Surely it’s not something you can’t work out between you.”
I saw her glance at Marge as if she expected my cousin to back her up, but Marge disappeared into the kitchen so quickly she might have been an apparition. “Let’s go see what your brothers are up to out there,” she said to Hartley, and I heard the door shut behind them.
Violet, thank goodness, followed suit. “I’m going to see if Marge will let me take home some of her hydrangea blossoms,” she said, pushing back her chair so quickly it almost tipped over. “Have you noticed that bush out by the porch? Such a rich color this year—almost violet.”
If my grandmother expected me to dump all my domestic problems in her lap, she was going to be disappointed. It just wasn’t something I wanted to share just yet, although God knows I needed to talk with somebody, but divorce was frowned upon in our family, and Ma Maggie could frown bigger than anybody. Even Uncle Ernest’s long-ago attempt at matrimony was never discussed in his presence.
My grandmother clung to my fingers as I stood beside her. (If I sat, she’d put me through the inquisition!) “Is Ned dissatisfied with his new job? I know he went through a bad time when that company he worked for . . . what do you call it . . . downsized, but I thought things would be easier now.”
“No, it’s not the job,” I said. After months of unemployment and what seemed like endless interviews, my husband had landed a position in the marketing department of a large medical supply company. “He really likes his work.” Why else would he spend more time away than at home?
“Do you think he might resent yours?” she asked.
“Resent my what?” I freed my hand and began to gather up the tablecloth, concentrating on collecting all the chocolate crumbs. I didn’t look at my grandmother.
“Your job, Kate. Some women prefer to stay at home, and I just thought it might be nice if you were there when Ned came home.”
“Ned seemed to be perfectly okay with the paycheck I brought home during all those months he didn’t have one, and I don’t remember him ever complaining about my working at the college.” I had taken a job as assistant to the registrar at our local community college when Josie began the first grade, and as far as I knew, none of our family had suffered because of it.
My grandmother rose and went to the window, and she didn’t speak for a moment; when she did, all I could see was that beautiful white hair twisted into a coil at the back of her neck. “I was just wondering if things might have been different if you hadn’t been working when—”
“I have to go,” I said. I knew where she was going with this, and I didn’t plan to join her.
“Kate, honey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean . . . please, you don’t have to leave.”
“We still have sand in our clothes from the beach,” I said. “I’ve loads of wash to do, and I don’t want Josie up too late. She’s had a busy week.” I brushed her cheek with a good-bye kiss.
But Ma Maggie wasn’t through. “Have you thought of talking with Burdette?” she said. “He’s so good in situations like this. He might be able to—”
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said on my way out.
Don’t cry, Kate. Don’t you dare cry! I swallowed the boulder in my throat and stood on the back porch for a minute to blink the moisture from my eyes. If I could just get to my parents’ house and go to sleep, maybe things would look brighter in the morning.
Marge knelt by the sandbox, patting damp sand around Hartley’s bare foot. “Now stand still and I’ll show you how to make a frog house,” she said to her three-year-old, but her enthusiasm vanished when she turned and saw me standing there.
“Kate, are you all right?”
“Just tired. Dinner was great, Marge, but I think we’ll head on out. I’m afraid I got too much sun at the beach this morning, and it was a long drive up here.”
“It’s Ma Maggie, isn’t it? Oh Lordy! What’d she say this time?”
I tried to smile. “I’m afraid I failed the June Cleaver test.” I felt in my shorts pocket for my car keys, then remembered I’d left them in the car—along with my purse.
Marge dusted sand from her hands and put a grainy paw on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Kate. Sometimes she goes too far, but you know I’m here if you ever want to talk.”
“Right now all I want to do is sleep,” I said, “but thanks.”
I found my daughter hanging upside down from a tree limb. “Oh, Mom, do we have to go? Cudin’ Bird’s built Darby and Jon a two-story tree house, and he’s gonna tell us ghost stories out there when it gets dark. Can’t I stay?”
Beside me, Marge spoke softly. “Why not let her stay, Kate? The sofa in that little upstairs sitting room makes into a bed, and the boys love having her here.”
“Please, Mom! Can’t I?” Josie, a smudge of dirt on her cheek, tugged at my shirt. She looked happier than I’d seen her in weeks. “I’ll be good, I promise.”
“You’ll mind Marge and Cudin’ Bird and not argue about bedtime?” I said, and my daughter nodded, grinning.
“She’ll be fine. Go home and take a long soak in the tub. Come on, I’ll help you get Josie’s things from the car.” Marge lifted long reddish-gold hair from her neck as we walked. It was so fine she couldn’t keep it pinned up and moist strands plastered her forehead. Hartley, chasing after us, clung to her long legs. My cousin was the one, I thought, who needed a relaxing soak in the tub, yet she didn’t seem nearly as tired as I felt.
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Guilt nagged at me as I pulled into my parents’ driveway, then dragged my suitcase from the trunk. I was actually glad Josie would be staying with her cousins, glad to be away from her obvious resentment. Her dad wasn’t around, so I was the one receiving her ten-year-old’s version of punishment for the shaky state of our family. And I was tired of it!
The house where I grew up was a yellow Cape Cod that had been built sometime in the 1960s and looked much like a lot of the other houses on the street, except for the wide porch Dad had added in the back and the huge oak out front where our rope swing once hung. I could see that my dad had planted his usual vegetable garden behind the house with tomatoes, bush beans and summer squash, although it would be weeks before they were ready for the table.
The emptiness of the house assailed me from every room. I had expected to experience loneliness, but not to this extent. Maybe it was the dusk-dark, which could sometimes be a melancholy time. I turned on lights as I walked through, wishing with all my heart that I hadn’t told Mama I’d represent our family at this reunion. I didn’t want to be here. What’s more, I didn’t even want to be me.
My mother had promised to call as soon as my sister’s baby arrived, no matter what the hour. Maybe she’d left a message on the voice mail! I hurried to the phone in the small study off the front hall, but the only message was from the dentist’s office reminding Mom of an appointment. Apparently everybody else in Bishop’s Bridge knew my parents were in England.
Upstairs in the room I had shared with Sara, I sat in the dormer window and watched Miss Julia Arnold across the street take her cocker spaniel out for its evening “squat,” as Dad liked to call it, usually in somebody else’s yard. Just thinking of Dad made me smile. If only he were here, he would make me feel better. But he wasn’t here.
Miss Julia, I knew, would be glad to see me; would probably invite me in for dessert or at least a glass of tea. And of course, she’d ask a hundred questions: “And how is that dear Ned? What a shame he couldn’t come . . . and don’t tell me you didn’t bring Josie . . .” My husband, Miss Julia claimed, reminded her of a young Jimmy Stewart, except he was better-looking. I couldn’t argue with her there. But I wouldn’t think of that.
Coming here had been a big mistake. Tomorrow, I thought, I would collect my daughter, give my excuses and head back home. But back home to what?
I kicked off my shoes and had started into the bathroom to fill the tub when I heard something downstairs that turned me into an ice sculpture. It was the sound of breaking glass and it seemed to have come from the room below. Somebody was trying to get into the house! Or, worse still, maybe they already had.