A Long Time Gone (28 page)

He raised an eyebrow as he looked at John, then nodded before moving down the newly repaired steps.

I was greeting Mr. and Mrs. Peacock when I noticed that Mr. Berlini had followed Sarah Beth into the cemetery and that they were both pretending to study the handmade grave markers of the colored people that Sarah Beth and I had discovered and then forgotten. Their lips were moving but they weren't looking at each other. But they were both leaning toward the other, like ancient tombstones bending under the weight of time.

“Your dress is absolutely breathtaking,” Mrs. Peacock was saying, drawing my attention away from Sarah Beth and Mr. Berlini. “I must remember to ask if I can study its construction when it's time to make our Lucy's dress. Not that she has a beau yet, but I'm sure it's just a matter of time.”

“My Maryanne's quite the artist with a needle and thread,” Mr. Peacock said with pride in his voice. “An artist—just like your husband, John. I've never seen anybody with such an understanding into the mechanics of timepieces. Most horologists study for years to attain the knowledge he seems to have been born with.”

I glowed with pride, thrilling at the word “husband.” “Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Peacock. And thank you for coming. I look forward to seeing you at the reception.”

I stilled when I recognized the next guest in line, Willie's schoolmate from Ole Miss Chas Davis. Willie had wrecked his car again and said he'd have to ride from school with a friend. It hadn't occurred to me to ask which friend. I'd seen Chas a couple of times since the Heathmans' New Year's party, when I'd threatened to scream my head off if he didn't leave Mathilda alone, and each time he gave no indication that
he remembered any of it. I knew alcohol sometimes did that to people, but I was never sure whether he had any recollection of what had happened or if he was just pretending that he didn't. Either way, my skin crawled every time I saw him, and during his brief visits with Willie, I tried to stay at Sarah Beth's. He greeted and offered congratulations to both of us, then moved down the steps without a hint of recognition or memory of that night.

The reception was held at my house, the yellow house with the improbable turret and the cedar tree out back and my garden that I had nourished since I was old enough to dig in the dirt.

John would move into my bedroom and we would sleep in the big black bed together for our entire married lives. And our children would be born in the same bed I'd been born in, and my mother before me. It was the way of us Walker women, this connection to birth and life. Much more, I was beginning to realize, than the legacy of leaving.

The dining room table overflowed with the family crystal, silver, and china, and an overabundance of the delicate tea sandwiches and cookies that my aunt Louise had been preparing for days. A large crystal bowl was filled with punch, and pitchers of lemonade were placed throughout the dining room and parlor for parched guests to help themselves. The Heathmans had lent us Mathilda for the day, which was probably more for their comfort than anything else. I wondered if the Heathmans even knew how to pour their own drinks, but figured there were enough guests in attendance to show them how even if Mathilda wasn't there.

“Is all this borrowed from the Heathmans?” John's breath tickled my ear as he bent close to kiss my cheek.

I shook my head. “It's ours now. I hope you don't mind eating off of china with a ‘W' monogram. We're quite proud of it, you know. When the Yankees came after the siege of Vicksburg, they stole everything they could carry, and destroyed everything else. My great-grandmother was sixteen at the time and pretended to have smallpox. Her daddy had taken out all the stuffing in her mattress and replaced it with all the china, crystal, and silver that would fit. She had to lie on it for three whole days, but it was worth it. The Yankees were too afraid to go near her.”

John laughed. “I knew I was marrying into a family with brains.”

Our eyes met, and I saw the promise of years reflected in his, as well
as the promise of what was to come tonight, when my aunt and uncle went to Gulfport to visit friends and Willie went back to Ole Miss, leaving the house empty for our honeymoon. At the pond behind the Ellis plantation, John had already shown me a little of what was to come, and my skin shivered in anticipation without his even having to touch me.

I studied him closely, trying to weigh my words. “We don't have to live here. I told you before, I can live anywhere, as long as I'm with you.”

He smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “This is your home, Adelaide. And I love this house, and your garden, and even the fields of cotton. Your uncle Joe has promised me it's not that different from growing corn, just trading in one set of problems for another.” He grinned and touched my chin. “I like farming, and I'll still be able to repair watches. Not having to buy a house means we're that much closer to getting my own shop.”

I loved the sound of the word “we” on his lips, enough that I was able to overlook that he hadn't mentioned his business dealings with Angelo Berlini, which I knew had not altered. I knew he was waiting until he had enough money in the bank to start his own repair business before severing all of his ties to Mr. Berlini. John was uncomfortable with his decision, but even I had to agree with the wisdom of it. At least now Angelo had time to prepare, to put another person in place.

Not caring if anybody was watching, I stood on my tiptoes and kissed him. “It will all work out. I know it will.” I hoped the tone of my voice was enough to convince us both.

We were distracted by the sound of an altercation coming from the rear of the house. We followed the rush of people toward the kitchen and through the back door. John tried to hold me back, but his hand slipped as I was caught up in the moving group of people as we fanned out onto the back porch, viewing the spectacle in the backyard.

Willie, staggering about in his shirtsleeves and with his tie undone and his hair falling over his eyes, was throwing ineffective punches in the direction of Angelo Berlini, who didn't even have a hair out of place. Every time Willie came toward him, Angelo held up his hands, not to deflect the wayward punches, but more as if to say he was refusing the invitation to fight.

I spotted Sarah Beth looking like the beautiful heroine in a Rudolph Valentino picture show, a small smile on her lips, almost as if she were
enjoying the spectacle. Mathilda stood next to her, angled in such a way that it seemed she was protecting her.

Willie threw another punch, almost tripping over his own feet, and Angelo didn't even bother to back up. “Look, Mr. Bodine, I'm not sure what you're upset about. . . .”

“What d'ya mean?” Willie shouted, his words slurring together. “Everything's jake between me and my girl, and then you show up in your fancy car and your fancy clothes and stick your fat Italian nose in where it doesn't belong.” He bobbed a fist in the air and this time he did trip, falling down on both knees. Angelo went to offer assistance, but Willie tried to pummel him again, looking as threatening as a cotton bale lying in a field.

“I've already given my best wishes to the happy couple, so I'll leave now and you can calm down and return to the party.”

Angelo turned on his well-shod heel and began walking toward the porch, either pretending he didn't see us all crowded on it or simply planning to barrel through us. A collective gasp rose from the gathered crowd as we all turned to see Willie suddenly lurch to his feet and rush toward Angelo from behind. Before the Italian could turn around to see what we were all looking at, Chas Davis raced out from the crowd and tackled Willie, bringing them both to the ground.

Willie managed to stagger to his feet again, but Chas wouldn't let go, hanging on to him with both arms. “She ain't worth it, Will. That girl ain't no better than she ought to be.”

I jerked my gaze around to Sarah Beth, realizing they were talking about her. And that I'd heard those words before. It had been at the back of the old slave cabin with Mathilda's Robert and the man Leon and the woman spitting tobacco juice into a jar. She'd said the exact same thing about Sarah Beth.

Both Chas and Willie were looking in Sarah Beth's direction, and as everybody followed their gazes, Mathilda took a step in front of her so that it appeared Willie had been speaking about her.

Willie looked at Chas with a confused expression that had nothing to do with his drunkenness. But any question he had for Chas was interrupted by my uncle Joe cutting through the crowd to come to his son's side, his expression a mixture of disbelief and anger. He yanked on Willie's arm and dragged him around to the front of the house and
out of sight. I figured Willie was too old and too big for the switch, but I wouldn't blame Uncle Joe one bit for trying.

Angelo paused on the bottom step of the porch, turning around with a polite smile on his face, as if he were the host and was satisfied that everybody was having a grand old time. He turned to my aunt, who looked like she might cry, and kissed her hand.

“Thank you, Mrs. Bodine, for such a lovely party. The wedding couple is truly lucky to have you and your husband in their lives.” He turned to me and kissed me again on each cheek. “And what a beautiful bride. I wish you every happiness in your marriage, and may you be blessed with many children who are as beautiful as their mother.”

I blushed and thanked him, then watched as he shook John's hand, giving him a long envelope with the other, and then left. John and I stayed where we were while my aunt fluttered her hands and forced a smile, and led everybody back inside.

When we were alone, John approached me, holding the unopened envelope.

“What is it?” I asked.

He was staring at the envelope as if he weren't quite sure. “His wedding gift.”

I took it from his stiff fingers, then carefully tore it open to find a note folded in thirds. I opened it up and a rectangular piece of paper slid out. As John bent to retrieve it, I read the note, each letter thick and dark and sprawling.
Cosa rara, cosa cara
.

I looked up to show John, but his face was milky white. “What's wrong?” I asked.

He held up the paper, a bank draft for two thousand dollars. He was shaking his head. “We can't accept it. It's too much money.”

“But, John, don't you understand? He wants to help us start our new lives. He wouldn't have given it to us if he couldn't afford it.” I threw my arms around my new husband, wanting to jump up and down and shout. “You see? He's not as bad as you think he is! We now are that much closer to you owning your own business. Isn't that wonderful?”

He just looked at me without saying anything.

His response was a lot more subdued than I expected. “John?”

The eyes that bore into mine were almost unrecognizable. But he smiled, and I saw the man I knew and loved. “Yes, darling. It's wonderful.”

I held the note up to him. “Do you know what this says? I think it's in Italian.”

He looked at it and then slowly nodded. “‘That thing that is rare is dear.'”

“That's lovely,” I said.

John put his arms around me and we stayed like that until Aunt Louise came out to tell us that it was time to cut the wedding cake and throw my bouquet.

John's mood lightened as we celebrated our marriage with our family and friends, and then said good-bye to everyone as they left, except for Willie, who hadn't come back to say good-bye, and the Heathmans, who had left with Sarah Beth right after the scene outside.

When the front door closed, I led John through the house and out the back door before stopping at my cypress tree. I loved watching the sunset from here, seeing the sun puddle into the cotton fields that sprawled in front of us. We were nearing harvesttime and the rows and furrows resembled what I imagined to be a snow-covered field. A flutter of wings made us look up, and I could see a murder of crows gathered on the branches of the tree, their oily wings reflecting the bloodred sun.

A soft breeze blew across the evening sky, like fingers stroking the cypress trees and making them play. “I love you forever,” John said, his lips in my hair.

I smiled up at him. “And I'll love you for longer.”

We looked up at the sound of fluttering wings and watched as the birds lifted out of the tree and flung themselves into the sky, an inky cloud that seemed to carry our words out over the horizon. We held hands as we walked back to the house and the big black bed, and into our future together.

Vivien Walker Moise

INDIAN
MOUND,
MISSISSIPPI
MAY
2013

I
mashed the button on my phone to read the time, dropping it unceremoniously back on my nightstand, disgusted that once again I was still awake in the darkest part of the night. I'd been tossing and turning for hours, trying to count sheep or anything else that would distract my thoughts from the photo of the unnamed baby and the ring on her finger. But like a persistent gnat on a hot summer's day, the niggling thought that I'd seen a photo of the baby before kept buzzing around my head.

All thoughts of sleep long gone, I flipped on my bedside light and sat up, my gaze roaming around my room for a distraction before finally settling on the bookshelf that seemed to be getting less and less full. I knew Chloe had been borrowing my books, but I was too thrilled to know that she was reading them to tell her that she should ask first.

My gaze slid to the bottom shelf, where an assortment of old framed photographs sat gathering dust. Photos of Tommy playing baseball in high school, pictures of the dog he'd had as a little boy that he'd never had the heart to replace. And there were the photos of Tripp and me at our junior and senior proms. He'd been my date for both, since I'd had
so many boys asking me that the only way I would be free to dance and flirt with all of them would be if I went with Tripp. The memory of it now made me wince.

There was a photo of Tommy and me wearing sunglasses and bathing suits on a beach trip to Biloxi, and next to that was a picture of Bootsie with the floppy hat that I'd found in the shed and had been wearing while trying to resuscitate her garden. She wore a floral-print dress and sensible shoes, and no gardening gloves. She'd never worn them, saying she needed to feel her plants to understand them better, and I had grown up to believe she'd been right. In the photo she held one of her prized tomatoes, its size and color the envy of any greengrocer or gardener. Behind her, standing like sentinels against the fence, were tall sunflowers, their faces turned toward the sun like those of teenage girls at the beach.

I'd forgotten about her sunflowers, how she loved to surround herself with their cheerful faces and would put them in a vase in the middle of the kitchen table, because she claimed it would put us on the right foot as we started our day. I made a mental note to find out if Tommy had any of her sunflower seeds.

My gaze traveled back to her face, to her warm and loving smile, and then up to her eyes. I froze. I left the bed and picked up the frame, bringing it to the lamp so I could see it better and to compare the photo with the one from the library. Even in the dim light, they seemed nearly identical. I'd once read that we are born with the same size eyes we will carry through adulthood. In the framed photo, my grandmother had creases in the corners and lines underneath, but when I held up the photograph of the baby, I had no doubt they could be the same pair of eyes.

Being as quiet as I could, I raced through the house to the downstairs parlor, carrying the frame and the loose photo. I caught the door before it slammed behind me, then flipped on the overhead light and table lamps before pulling out the old photo albums that Bootsie had assembled over the years. The older albums had the tabbed corners that made the photos easy to lift and examine any writing on the backs. The more recent albums were the magnetic ones, whose glue had long ago adhered to the photos, making it hard if not impossible to remove without damaging the photographs.

Not that I needed to look at the most recent albums, the photos of Tommy and me with our nineties haircuts and awkward phases of braces and bad skin. There were so many photos of us, but Bootsie had always wielded the camera. If somebody were to look at the albums, he would have thought we'd raised ourselves without any adult supervision.

But I remembered that there were photos of Bootsie as a little girl in the older albums. I flipped through the pages of black-and-white photos of people I didn't know and a few photos of a young Bootsie with a tall, handsome man with sad eyes who I knew was her father. There were none of her and her mother, which didn't surprise me, since I knew she'd died the year Bootsie was born. I was flipping through quickly, but stopped suddenly as I turned to two facing pages in the middle of the album. They were empty except for four black photo tabs in the shape of a rectangle on each page, and in the approximate size of the photo I held in my hands.

Balancing the album on my lap, I slipped the corners of the baby photo into the tabs, not all that surprised when the photo fit perfectly. I could only guess at what had been on the facing page.

It wasn't until I'd turned to the next page that I found what I'd been looking for. It was a photo of the same baby, in a different pose as the photo in the archives, but wearing the identical clothing, which made me assume the photos were taken in a studio at the same time. And on her chubby baby finger she wore the heart ring. I'd gone through this album dozens of times as I was growing up, seeing the baby ring but not really
seeing
it. And I'd forgotten all about it until Tripp had shown me the ring from the grave and it had jogged loose an old memory.

I carefully lifted the photo from the page and turned it over.
Bootsie Walker Richmond
. I flipped back a page, staring at the empty spot, wondering why one of Bootsie's baby photos had been used in a newspaper article, and what might have been in the missing photograph. I replaced the second photo into the album, then curled up on the sofa by the window and stared at the sky while waiting for morning, finally falling asleep just as the sky flushed pink.

I knelt in the soft soil of the garden, wearing Bootsie's old floppy hat and marking out sections in the dirt with the tip of my trowel. Carol
Lynne sat cross-legged in her old jeans, holding her own trowel and watching me closely, while Chloe sat in one of the green chairs, reading aloud from some of the photocopied news articles that Mrs. Shipley had made for us.

I reached over to my mug that sat on top of the hatbox Chloe seemed to bring with her everywhere. I was on my fourth cup already, but still feeling sluggish. Despite my hours of sleeplessness, I'd managed to fall asleep long enough to miss asking Tommy to use his equipment to read what was engraved on the baby's ring. Frustration at having to wait a little longer nearly eclipsed my anxiety at finding out what was written on the tiny heart.

“Here's something you can write about,” Chloe shouted from behind the sheets of paper in her hands.

I sat back on my heels and looked at her. “What?”

“Did you know that President Kennedy was shot?”

It crossed my mind that she might be joking, but I dismissed the thought when I saw her amazed expression, like she'd just found out that Justin Bieber was a girl. “Yes, I might have heard that.”

“Well, some guy in Indianola dropped dead when he heard about it while watching the news on TV. I guess he was a big fan.”

“Cousin Emmett had a stroke when he heard the news, too. He always had a limp after that.” Carol Lynne dug her trowel into the ground and twisted it just like I'd shown her.

“You remember that?” I asked softly. “You remember when President Kennedy was shot?”

She stared at the handle of her trowel that was sticking up out of the dirt, as if she wasn't sure what she was supposed to do next. She nodded. “It was really sad. I was in a bus station. With Jimmy.” She smiled, as if she'd just won an award for pulling an obscure name from her past out of the ether. “There was a TV on and then people started crying. I remember that.”

“Do you remember my high school graduation? When my heel got caught on my gown and I fell when I went up to get my diploma?”

She stared at me blankly, her smile dimming.

“Or how I was voted most likely to be famous? Do you remember that?”

I heard the sound of a pencil scratching across paper and saw Chloe
jotting down what my mother had said about Kennedy's assassination, and I knew I'd have to use it in an article. I was jealous of those memories of a time and place that had nothing to do with me, jealous of a boy named Jimmy who played a larger part in the play that had become her past than her own daughter, whose presence had been relegated to backstage. It was almost as if the very existence of my childhood hinged on my mother's ability to remember it.

“Here's another one, Vivi. About that blues singer guy Mr. Montgomery was telling us about who made a deal with the devil and sold his soul to make him the best guitar player ever. It's a real place—at the crossroads of highways Sixty-one and Forty-nine in a lame-sounding town called Clarksdale. We should go there and take pictures.”

I barely heard her as I tried to fill my empty lungs with air, each breath full of the hurt of being forgotten, of being replaced by memories of people I'd never known. I thought of my purse and the single pill I'd found at the bottom of it when looking for a pen. I'd left it there; I wasn't sure why. But all I could do right now was think about it, and think about making an excuse to go upstairs and take it so that all this pain would stop and I could forget just as easily as my mother had.

“For your
column
,” Chloe reminded me. “Do I have to write it, too, or do you just want me to do all the research?”

I cleared my throat. “No, but thanks.” I stuck my bare fingers in the dirt and squeezed as if that could ground me. It calmed me, and I could almost imagine it was Bootsie's hand in mine instead of a fistful of dirt. I smiled at Chloe. “You're doing a great job with the research, and I think we've got two winners there. But why don't you put that away now. It's time for your science lesson.”

She actually groaned. “Just don't make me put my hands in the dirt. Do you know how many
germs
are in there?”

“That's why it's called dirt. And I didn't ask you to eat it, just dig little holes and put seeds in them. I've marked off an entire section just for you, so you can be responsible for your own plants.”

With great exaggeration, she slapped the papers down onto the seat next to her and stood. “I'll work with Carol Lynne, since we're both newbies and you're the professional. That makes us even.”

“I didn't realize this was a competition,” I said, amused despite myself.

“Dad says everything's a competition and nobody remembers who comes in second.”

I bit my lip hard to keep from blurting out what I really thought about her dad and his nuggets of wisdom. “Fine,” I said, handing her a bag of Bootsie's seeds that Tommy had given me. “These are lima bean seeds. Dig your holes two inches deep and four to six inches apart so they have room to grow. I've already prepared the soil with compost and fertilizer, so I don't want to hear you complain about getting dirty, okay?”

She scowled up at me but I kept on talking. “I'll show you each day what you need to do with your plants to keep them healthy—and a lot of that depends on the weather. Cora said she was picking up a garden journal for you to keep all your notes.”

She took the seed bag with an eye roll and a heavy sigh, but I could see that she was also looking at the lines drawn in the dirt with interest. “I have another trowel in the toolshed,” I suggested. “Although, to be honest, I find that using my fingers is best for such a small hole. But I know how you feel about getting your hands dirty.”

We both settled our gazes on Carol Lynne, who still crouched on her knees in front of the same hole she'd begun to dig, examining it as if she weren't sure about what happened next.

“That's okay,” Chloe said, getting down on her knees in the dirt next to my mother. “We'll share.”

She placed Carol Lynne's hands around the trowel, then put hers on top, and together they flipped the tip out of the dirt, excavating a perfectly round hole a single inch deep. She held open the bag and my mother selected a seed after picking up then putting back three, then placed it in the hole. Then they both scraped the loose dirt back over the hole and pressed it down snugly, Chloe's round hands almost completely covered by my mother's older ones.

“Don't pack it too tightly,” I said. “The little shoots are very delicate and not strong enough to break through hard ground, so don't smother them. And then they have to figure out how to stick their heads out into the sunshine on their own. All you can do is watch and hope for the best, because you've done everything you know how to do.”

“Like we're the mothers and these are our little babies,” Carol Lynne said, her voice as clear as a child's.

Chloe laughed, a sound I hadn't heard a lot of in the last few years.
“You're right!” she said. Their eyes met and they smiled at each other like a freaking Hallmark Channel movie.

I looked away, sad yet somehow contented, too. Chloe was different here, despite all of her protestations. It had been a good thing for her to come; I could see that now. Not because of me, but because of the opportunities in compassion she could experience for the first time in her life.