A Long Time Gone (24 page)

He chewed in silence for a moment. “I think John keeps forgetting that I'm not the boss. And the guy who is isn't as nice and understanding as I am. He doesn't have the affection that I have for you and your fiancé.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out another stick of gum and shoved it into his mouth, chewing in agitation, and I wondered if he'd normally calm his nerves with a cigar but was being a gentleman since I was in the car. “I'm hoping to appeal to your female mind's ability to recognize the right thing to do. See, John and I have been business associates for a few years in what has been a very profitable venture for everyone concerned. He knows the people down here and they respect him and trust him. That's worth a million bucks to any businessman trying to make a living in a place where he's considered an outsider. You understand what I'm saying?”

I nodded, only because I knew we didn't have the time for him to explain it to me.

He continued. “So when John tells me that he wants to end our business relationship so that he can get married and settle down, it worried me. I understand his reasons, but my boss won't. And no, I haven't told him yet—I've been hoping to convince John otherwise so I don't have to.” He smacked his gum, the smell of peppermint filling the space between us.

“Mr. Berlini . . .”

“Angelo.”

“Yes, sorry. Angelo. I'm sure John hasn't meant to hurt you in any way. I know he plans to continue working at the jewelry store, and I don't see how that would affect your relationship. . . .”

The strangest look came over his face, and his skin turned a mottled purple color as a sound that could have been laughter erupted from his mouth. “The jewelry store?” he finally managed to spit out.

I could only stare at him, having no idea what was so funny.

His expression became serious suddenly. “Look, I need your help here. For John's sake. He needs to be straight with you about things, but you can help him by letting him know that he could be in a lot of trouble if he ends our business relationship. A lot of trouble. He'll know what that means.”

“All right,” I said, recalling the story of his sister and his mother. There was a deep hurt in his eyes that I recognized and understood. Maybe that was why I'd stopped being afraid of him.

He sat back, chewing on his gum. “I only want the best for both of you. Tell John that, too.” He grinned. “And make sure I get an invitation to the wedding.”

He put the car in gear again, driving out onto the road and back into town without another word. He pulled up at the curb in front of Hamlin's just as Mathilda was crossing the street from the grocer's. She stopped when she spotted the car and pulled back into the shadow of an awning.

“Can I have the fur coat now?” I asked, trying to make my voice sound calm and mature, even though my mind was spinning with everything he'd said and everything I didn't know.

He chuckled softly. “You are more charming than you know, Miss Bodine. But it's mixed with an innocence that's oddly alluring. I find it very attractive. Too bad John found you first.”

I opened my door and jumped out of the car before he could say another word. Of all the things I was supposed to tell John, that last part wouldn't be one of them.

Mr. Berlini opened his door and slowly stood, then sauntered to the rear of the car before opening the trunk. Inside was Sarah Beth's fur coat, huddled carelessly in the corner like a sleeping fox.

I reached inside and grabbed it before he could say another word, then walked quickly down the sidewalk to where Mathilda stood, watching and waiting. I suddenly understood why he'd taken the coat, and how patient he'd been for five months.
Like a spider in a web,
I thought.

“It was a pleasure getting to know you better, Adelaide,” he called after me. “Please give my regards to your fiancé.”

I turned, with a tight smile and a nod, then hurried past Mathilda, my stomach roiling with uneasiness, and my arms heavy with the weight of the dead thing in my arms.

Vivien Walker Moise

INDIAN
MOUND,
MI
SSISSIPPI
MAY
2013

I
was having the same nightmare again, the one I'd been having since I stopped medicating myself. I wondered how long it would be until the bad dreams stopped or I didn't reach for the pill bottle every time I awoke with a scream in the back of my throat.

In the dream, I was in the backyard standing at the edge of the hole, looking down at the skeleton. While I watched, the skull smiled, and then a bony hand reached up toward me. Before I could pull away, I found myself lying among the roots of the old tree, and somebody was shoveling dirt over my body.

My desire not to be terrified each night was a strong deterrent to falling asleep. Once again, I found myself throwing off my covers and then walking through the sleeping house, my bare feet padding along familiar corridors and avoiding the creaks I remembered from my childhood.

Slowly, I walked down the front staircase, watching the moonlight through the fan window over the doors etch patterns on the wall. I sat down on the steps in front of the watermark, somehow drawn to this place during each of my midnight wanderings, regardless of where I started or ended.

I placed my hand on the spot on the wall that had become a monument to our past, the plaster cool to my touch, and heard Bootsie telling me about her mother, who'd been lost in the flood, and how she'd saved Bootsie's life by leaving her behind. But the unanswered question of why she'd been left had haunted my grandmother her entire life. I dropped my hand and clenched my eyes, trying to block out the strength of the feelings coursing through me. Or maybe they weren't really that strong at all, but felt without filters for the first time in more years than I cared to count. I hadn't yet decided if that was a good thing or not.

I began to cry, not really sure why. But I felt Bootsie's absence like a physical thing, like a gaping wound in my chest where I couldn't make it stop bleeding. Maybe I was crying for her, like a child wanting her blanket. Or maybe I was crying for the little girls we'd all once been, sobbing for our mothers who were no longer there.

The central air-conditioning—installed after my mother's return—clicked off, and I imagined I could hear the house breathing around me, the slow inhale and exhale of all the years that had settled inside its walls. I leaned against the stair railings and was considering falling asleep sitting upright when the clinking sound of silverware came from the direction of the kitchen. Thinking it was Tommy finally home from the fields, I moved through the foyer toward the back of the house and opened the swinging door that led to the kitchen.

The only lights on were the under-cabinet light beneath the giant 1980s microwave and the small china lamp that sat on the telephone table where a collection of Yellow Pages books lay gathering dust. Sitting absolutely still at the laminate table, her face showing the same surprise I felt, was Chloe. She wore an old nightgown that had once belonged to Bootsie, with lots of lace and flounces and that was way too long. I had no idea where she'd found it, but assumed Carol Lynne had something to do with it. I was just happy to see Chloe in something that wasn't black.

My fingers fumbled for the wall switch before flicking on the overhead fluorescents, leaving Chloe and me blinking in the sudden light like moles emerging from their holes. When my vision had recovered, I was able to see what was on the table in front of her. A collection of mismatched Tupperware containers and one Cool Whip bucket, all
containing leftovers carefully stored by Cora Smith, sat on the table like an audience waiting for the big show. A clean fork and spoon lay on top of an empty plate, untouched, as a despondent-looking Chloe frowned at me from one of the orange vinyl chairs.

“Go away,” she said, putting her face in her hands, but not before I'd seen her beautiful blue eyes devoid of black eyeliner.

Pretending I hadn't heard her, I pulled back another chair and sat down. “I thought you might be Tommy,” I said. “He's been working all sorts of weird hours. It's real nice of you to make him a plate.” As I spoke, I slid the plate and silverware toward me, and then began popping open the Tupperware lids, hearing the satisfying burp of air.

She leaned back in her chair, her arms crossed over her chest, and continued scowling at me. I decided to use Tripp's trick and not speak at all, hoping I could wait her out. I began scooping out multicolored Jell-O salad, sweet potato casserole, a couple of pork chops, and fried okra, taking my time arranging everything so that the plate looked like a gastronomical work of art.

I played with the food so long, waiting for her to speak, that the Jell-O began to get runny and form a little river through the potatoes. I knew Tommy would never touch it, remembering how when we were younger Bootsie would have to serve each food item on a separate plate for Tommy, who would actually gag if two items should dare spread into each other's territory. I assumed that his being nearly forty hadn't meant that his culinary peculiarities had improved any.

“I was hungry,” she said finally. “And I didn't know what was in all these container things so I had to take them all out.”

I began to form tall peaks with the potatoes, sticking a fried okra on top for a final flourish. “That's fine. But you know you probably wouldn't be so hungry if you'd eat more at supper.”

“But it's all bad stuff—all those carbs and nonorganic vegetables. My dad would kill me if he knew I was eating all that crap.”

My eyes scanned the smorgasbord on the table as if to remind her of what she
hadn't
eaten, but I didn't comment on her flawed logic. Nor did I correct her on her language. I knew this was one of those times when I had to pick my battle.

“Chloe, you should never eat or not eat something because
somebody tells you to. You're almost thirteen. You're old enough to make your own food choices.”

She continued to scowl but didn't interrupt me.

“My grandmother had very simple rules when it came to eating—eat when you're hungry, don't eat until you're stuffed, eat a variety of foods, and never say no to dessert. And she was right. Once I told myself I could eat the yummy stuff, I stopped wanting it just because I wasn't supposed to have it.”

“That's easy for you to say, because you're skinny and beautiful. I'm fat and ugly.”

There was a sob behind her words, and I knew I had to tread very carefully. I remembered having similar thoughts about myself when I was twelve, but I'd had Bootsie and Mathilda to help me navigate the quicksand otherwise known as adolescence. Chloe had no one except me. And that thought alone scared the hell out of me. Especially now, when I had no other recourse but to tap into my remembered pain and see if I could steer her away from it.

“In sixth grade at a dance mixer, a boy I had a crush on paid his best friend to dance with me so he wouldn't have to. I wasn't one of those pretty girls who knew how to dress or flirt. It was humiliating.” I didn't mention how Tripp had punched the boy in the face and made his nose bleed in the parking lot to defend my honor.

“And when I got home crying so hard that the front of my bedazzled Hello Kitty T-shirt was soaking wet, Mathilda told me what she told you—that not starting out pretty meant that I'd been given a chance to work on my personality, something those other girls never had to bother with.”

I flattened out a piece of cold corn bread with the back of my spoon, then stuck okra tips in it to make a smiley face. I turned it around so she could see it, relieved to notice the corner of her cheek lift slightly. “Chloe, you're funny, clever, and curious. Don't push all of that good stuff away to try to make yourself fit into somebody else's idea of what a beautiful person is.”

Her hands had dropped into her lap, and she was staring at them. Very quietly she said, “If I'm all those things, why doesn't my dad call me?”

I wanted to shout and scream and hurl all the abuse I could think of
at my ex-husband. Mostly I wanted to cry over all the times I'd sat in my drug-induced fog and never said anything at all.

I moved to her chair and crouched next to her, being careful not to touch her. “I want you to listen very hard, and remember this: Your dad's issues have nothing whatsoever to do with you. If he can't see what's wonderful in you, then it's his problem, not yours. You can't live your life through his eyes or anybody else's. You need to make sure that who you see in your mirror is somebody
you
like.”

I sat back on my heels, breathless at the memory of hearing those words. I'd been about seven or eight, and Carol Lynne had her suitcases by the door again. I was hysterical, trying to say anything that would make her stay. Tommy had disappeared into his room, and Mathilda and Bootsie had already given up.

Carol Lynne had knelt in front of me and told me about living my life through my own eyes, and liking who I saw each morning in my reflection. At the time, I thought she was only talking about herself.

I stood, my voice shaky. “Come on—help me clean this up so we can get back to sleep.”
As if
.

Without argument, she slid from her chair and began stacking containers. I picked out two pieces of corn bread and stuck them in the microwave, then helped stack the rest of the containers before returning them to the refrigerator.

The microwave binged and I took out the corn bread, placing each piece on a napkin before handing one to Chloe. She looked at me suspiciously.

“You said you were hungry. I am, too.”

She took it reluctantly but didn't move to eat it. I took a bite of my own, as if to show her how it was done. After swallowing, I said, “Have you heard the cypress trees at night? They make music.”

“Right.” Despite her belligerent tone, I heard a note of curiosity, too.

“Well, I'm going outside to listen. You can come if you want.” I didn't look behind me as I moved toward the kitchen door, deliberately walking slowly but not holding the door open behind me. At the last moment, I felt the tension of the closing door stop and heard Chloe stepping down onto the back porch before pausing.

“Are there any wild boars out there?”

I stopped and faced her. “No—my garden doesn't have anything in
it for them to eat. Besides, despite what Tripp led you to think, they're not all that common.” I began walking toward the mound, satisfied to hear Chloe following behind me.

We walked past the silent garden and the old cypress tree toward the Indian mound. A half-moon smiled beneath the freckles of stars in the clear sky as the outside lights from the house lit our way toward the outline of the mound. We climbed the small hill without speaking, the chorus of night insects ringing in our ears.

I finished my last bite of corn bread, and when I looked at Chloe I saw her crumpling her napkin in her hand. I sat down on the grass, feeling the cool dampness of it beneath my baby-doll pajamas. At least Chloe in her own ill-fitting sleepwear had no room to comment. Holding my breath, I lay all the way down, the cold prickles of grass tickling my skin as I looked up at the stars. Without a word, Chloe did the same, the white of her nightgown glowing like a neon sign atop the ancient mound.

“Close your eyes,” I said. “You can hear the trees better that way.”

I didn't check to see if she'd closed her eyes or not. It was always easier to let her decide on her own what she wanted to do. I'd learned that, at least, trying to be her mother.

As if on cue and I the conductor, the strings of a quartet began to play, the low notes of a bass the perfect foil for the melodic duet of cellos and violins. I closed my eyes, the music overtaking all of my senses, and I felt myself beginning to drift asleep as if the symphony of the trees had the power to banish my nightmares.

“That's pretty cool,” Chloe said.

My eyes popped open, and I tried not to show my surprise. Any admission above “It doesn't suck” was a big compliment coming from Chloe.

“Yeah. I think so, too.” I turned to her, the grass brushing my cheek. “Is there anything else about the boondocks you find cool?”

She was silent for a moment, and I was worried that she couldn't think of anything to say. Finally she said, “The house. It's like a house you'd find in a Dr. Seuss book.”

I grinned, admiring her imagination. “Mr. Montgomery has always said the same thing.”

Chloe made a gagging noise. “Please don't say that we think alike. I might have to go rinse my mouth out with bleach or something.”

I laughed softly, hearing the wave of sound begin on one side of the swamp and move toward the other like a giant hand brushing the tips of the trees. “Oh, it wouldn't be such a terrible thing to think like Mr. Montgomery. Don't tell him I said so, but he's a pretty neat guy once you get to know him.”

“So you think he's hot?”

I stammered. “I, uh, um, I've never really thought of him that way.”

“Right. Well, he's pretty old and all, but he looks a lot like Ryan Reynolds, and all my friends think he's pretty hot.”

Considering “all her friends” meant Hailey and maybe one or two other girls, it wouldn't have counted as an official survey, but she wasn't that far off the mark. “I'm not looking for a relationship, Chloe. I'm just trying to figure out some things.”

She was silent for a moment, staring up at the stars. “Why did we never do this in LA?”

“Because the lights of the city make the sky too bright. It's one of the advantages to living out in Pork Butt, Mississippi.”

She snorted out a laugh. “It's still the most boring place on earth.”

I neglected to mention that she'd chosen to be here. “You've only been here for a few weeks, Chloe. Tommy said you could spend a day with him next week in the fields, depending on if the weather holds, and there's fishing, and swimming, walking the levees. We've got museums and old plantations and the blues, and some of the best soul food in the world. As a kid growing up here, I never thought I had nothing to do.”