A Southern Exposure (27 page)

“No, silly. Just back to school.”

She would not like Russ to know, actually, just how often she thinks of exactly that, although she sometimes mentions it to Harry. School. Studying something. Anything. Maybe even studying for a profession. Law school, even medical school.

She teases Russ. “How’d you like it if I went back to school and got to be a doctor, or a lawyer?”

He laughs, as she more or less meant him to. “I just said school. I didn’t say turn into some lady lawyer, with a briefcase. Or a doctor, for the love of God, with the Lord knows what on her arm.”

The basic problem with the little store, and the conflicts that have arisen between Dolly and Cynthia all come from divergent visions: Dolly sees a small space into which a great many things for sale are crowded. Whereas Cynthia cherishes a more austere view of the same space containing far fewer but larger, higher-priced objects. But, Cynthia wonders, maybe hers is not a good theory for Pinehill, and for years just emerging from the Depression? She sometimes concedes this to herself, if not to Dolly.

And maybe she should just wash her hands of the whole enterprise, she sometimes further thinks. Just leave it as Dolly’s store. But if she does that, still another inner voice argues, she will have almost no excuse to keep coming back to Pinehill. That is,
if
she goes back to Georgetown. To Harry.

Cynthia finds herself overtaken by a curious passivity,
though. A lassitude. It must have to do with so much making love, she thinks. Relaxed, she does not force herself toward decisions, although soon it will be time for her to go back to Georgetown. Or not.

When she is actually with Russ, she waits for him to make some move, some speech. But she is still quite uncertain about what her response would be.

She does not know whether Odessa agrees with her or with Dolly about the plans for merchandising in the store, and she finds no way to ask her. Almost never does Odessa say anything to Cynthia beyond a murmured “Yes’m,” or “No’m.” Cynthia thinks that Odessa doesn’t like her, and then she thinks, I’m being ridiculous. Odessa just does not have conversations with white ladies. I must be as mysterious, as opaque to her as she is to me. One difference being that Odessa probably does not give it a lot of thought. She takes things as they are, being helpless to change them.

Helplessly, hopelessly, Cynthia tries too hard with Odessa. She tries to be friends, even just to communicate. She truly likes her, she genuinely admires Odessa’s work, the marvelous multicolored bolts of fabric that Odessa has woven and dyed, but when she tries to praise this work she sounds silly—even insincere—to her own ears. “Oh, Odessa, what an absolutely heavenly shade of purple, it’s just divine, I adore it!” What idiotic speech! She feels trapped in her own language, stupidly floundering in schoolgirl exaggeration.

Russ still makes his joke about feeling sixteen with Cynthia, and she always laughs and agrees. For her, though, this “joke” has taken on a slightly new meaning, in that she
feels that he is indeed less experienced in love than she is. And how can that be, for the truth of it is that her only real (only all-the-way) experiences have been with Harry, years and years of making love with Harry. Whereas with Russ, besides SallyJane, there has been Deirdre Yates, and Norris Drake, and God knows who in Hollywood, or anywhere. But the point is that Russ makes love in a very boyish, straightforward way. A fair amount of kissing and touching, first, and then he enters her. He moves about inside her quite vigorously, and she comes (or sometimes not; Russ thinks she always does, and he never asks), he comes, and everything is over for a while. None of the variations on that theme, the delicious delays, the intensifying side trips, so to speak, that she and Harry took such delight in. Harry, she guesses, is a real sexual adventurer, who has led her on and on.

If she and Russ marry, Cynthia imagines that she will teach him all those things—or sometimes she imagines this. At other times she thinks, Oh no, he’d be shocked to death if I put my tongue or even my finger there (and she longs to do just that, to tongue and finger him everywhere). Or, at other, worse times, she thinks, I could never do that with anyone but Harry.

But she wants Russ to ask her to marry him. If he does not, it will mean that he doesn’t love her, that what they are doing is not serious. Although she knows that for both of them it is highly serious.

He says, “I am thinking of you all the time. I mean that literally. No moment that isn’t you. If I think I’m working, I’m really just kidding myself.” Russ is scowling as he says this, his high white brow deeply furrowed, and his voice is angry. “I have to get over this,” he says.

Looking at him then, Cynthia suddenly and completely understands that when he does decide to marry her, and he will decide that quite soon, it will be in order to end his obsession with her. He will marry her to free himself. Marry in order to be no longer madly in love.

But she still does not know how she will answer him.

He says, “If we have a child—I guess I mean if we
had
a child—I think it would be a beautiful blonde girl. Green-eyed. Like you.”

She laughs at him. “And a skinny Yankee, to boot. Oh, Russ, I’m too old even to think about more children.”

Very seriously he tells her, “No, you’re not. You could even have a couple more, if you want to.”

In a literal sense he is right, she is not close to forty yet, and women have children even past that age.

He says, “A woman like you, you could manage a couple of kids and take a few courses at the college too.”

Is this his version of a marriage proposal? Not quite, Cynthia decides. It is more like a warning signal: Look, this is what I have in mind, I think you should know.

One afternoon, more or less at Russ’s insistence, they walk out again to Laurel Hill. Late September, just before Dolly’s return. The sky is a pure deep blue, with a few tiny fluffy, cottony clouds at the horizon, and the air is warm but threaded through with lines of cooler air, just the barest suggestion of cool, like the slightest murmuring sound of leaves, or of wind, that signifies fall. The end of summer.

Thinking this, and thinking of autumn, Cynthia further thinks: The end of us, too. She and Russ could never marry—Good Lord, of course not. She sees that now, and
sees too that he should be married, he needs a wife. And so it has to be over between them, she thinks, with a sharp-edged, painful thrust to her heart. And at the same time she is aware that she is being sentimental, she must stop this.

But it is Russ, the poet, who says to her, “Does autumn make you sad?—the end of summer? It does me, every time.”

“Despite all the mists and mellow fruitfulness.”

“Yep, despite all that.”

Looking over, she sees that he is smiling, but then the smile stops, and Russ stops too, stops walking and turns to her, first grasping her arm, then taking her into his arms. He says, “I love you too much, I think of you too much. I want us to get married.”

So that he will love her less, and think of her less often? Cynthia later decides that he did mean just that; he wants a diminishing of intensity, an end to such an extreme of passion (although he may not have known exactly what he was saying, or meaning). But at the moment, despite better judgment, she thrills to his words: Russell Byrd is asking her to be his wife (later she is to examine that phrase, and to find some interesting implications therein). Her silly, vain heart thrills, even as, intelligently, she is saying, “But, Russ, we can’t. I love you too, but it wouldn’t work out as a marriage. Not ever.”

He almost too quickly agrees. “I guess you’re right.”

“But we’ll still see each other. I’ll come down to see you all the time. There’s the store for an excuse. We’ll see each other a lot.” Cynthia says all this with a rapid-fire desperation, knowing even as she speaks that it is not quite true. They will not see each other a lot, much less “all the time.” And she is instantly filled with the most terrific and almost unbearable sadness, as though she will be leaving and losing not only Russ but this whole most intricately lovely little
town, with its special scents and weathers, its hard white rutted sidewalks and desiccated old brick houses. She is losing Pinehill.

All this passes through her mind, a quick vision of loss, as she also thinks, And Russ will marry someone else. He’ll have to.

The day in June, the first June of World War II, on which Deirdre Yates and Russ Byrd are married, is a pale blue day, hung with intricate, filmy, and delicate clouds, like white lace. Amazing clouds, as almost everyone remarked; no one had ever seen their like before. The clouds drift through that pale blue sky, above the wedding reception, which takes place in Russ’s garden. Now Russ and Deirdre’s garden.

“It’s like the day was made to go with Deirdre’s blue dress, now wouldn’t you say?”

“Well, yes indeed. The loveliest day I ever did see.”

“And the loveliest bride, or almost. Surely one of them. Those eyes.”

“Sort of funny, her not wearing a real white bride dress, don’t you think?”

“Not funny at all, it’s like she’s saying—”

“Well, what is she saying? After all, it’s her first—”

“Isn’t it wonderful that Harry and Cynthia made it just in time?”

“Just barely, though. I declare, those two are busy as busy in D.C.”

“And down here. Their house. Deirdre’s old house.”

“Cynthia looks absolutely lovely. And so happy.”

“Maybe a little too happy?”

“Whatever do you mean by that?”

“You hear they’re putting in a swimming pool, the Bairds are, out in back of Deirdre’s house?”

“You mean Cynthia’s house.”

“I guess. Got three colored men out there digging.”

“I heard five.”

“Where’s Abigail Baird?”

“She and Betsy were over there, I just saw them.”

“Can you believe these clouds?”

“How many years is it now since SallyJane died?”

“Two, or is it three? I’m so terrible with dates.”

“And then there’s the war. So much to keep straight.”

“How old is Abby by now?”

“Well, I can’t keep that straight either. She must be thirteen, or is it fourteen?”

“I just can’t recall exactly what year it was they moved down here, those three people.”

“Sure made a difference.”

“The Baird family. Remember, we used to call them the ‘Bads’?”

“Some of us used to. Some never said such a thing.”

“Be real nice, having a pool in town.”

“Whatever age she is, she looks older. Abby Baird, I mean.”

“Well, so does Melanctha Byrd. Kids these days.”

“Can you believe it? Them wearing lipstick?”

“I don’t think Deirdre’s got on one speck of makeup.”

“Must be what Russ likes. Remember poor SallyJane never wore any makeup either. Not even any face powder.”

“Have to be as beautiful as Deirdre Yates. Oh, I reckon as of today it’s Deirdre Byrd!”

“SallyJane once was a very beautiful woman, now don’t you forget it.”

“Hard to recall her face exactly by now.”

“Melanctha’s the dead spit of her daddy, wouldn’t you say?”

“SallyJane’s body, though. She’s going to have some trouble with that chest.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“More boys chasing after her than she’ll know what to do with.”

“Never heard of a girl that minded getting a rush.”

“That’s all you know. It can go too far, especially when the girl’s really young and she gets confused.”

“Well, you ladies sure have a peck of problems, I can see that.”

“Have you noticed? No one’s talking about the war this afternoon.”

“Oh my yes, such a relief.”

“Well, that’s not quite true. I just heard Jimmy Hightower going on about that General Rommel, off in the desert.”

“Oh, that Jimmy, with his maps and his flags and his little pointers.”

“What do you bet he writes a big best-seller about the war.”

“He’ll give it a try, that’s for sure.”

“Can that be Clarence Yates over there, with that big dark-looking woman?”

“It’s got to be Clarence Yates, I guess. All the way from California!”

“Well, of course, it’s Deirdre’s first—”

“You already said that, and it wasn’t funny the first time.”

“Interesting about Russ’s pig play, don’t you think?”

“I didn’t hear, what happened?”

“Well, that theatre group over to Hilton’s going to do it. They’re just wild about Russ, always have been.”

“No money to it, I hear, but whole lots of prestige, in that world.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me none if Russ wasn’t happier that way. He never really was a one for all that fancy stuff. No more than was SallyJane.”

“Or Deirdre either.”

“No sir, that girl is not one bit spoiled, for all her being such a beauty.”

“I have to go and say hello to Clarence Yates.”

“Were you surprised, I mean at their getting married?”

“Not really. Maybe I should have been. It just seemed right, somehow. And Russ was bound to marry someone, sometime. He’s a marrying kind of man.”

“Me too, I felt the same.”

“And her little Graham, he’ll fit right in with Russ’s kids. Looks like one of them already.”

“Sure does. Sure absolutely does.”

“The boys all seem to like him fine, but that Melanctha’s taken against him, someone told me.”

“Why ever would that be?”

“Who knows with kids. Something to do with SallyJane, do you think?”

“I can’t quite see how that would be. Did SallyJane ever see that boy, do you think?”

“Must have, one time or another. They’re around town a lot, taking their walks. Her and Graham.”

“Wonder whatever she made of that.”

“Same as everyone else, I reckon.”

“Pinehill must seem awful dull to you, after glamorous wartime Washington, D.C.”

“Oh no, not at all, in fact I—”

“Well, we sure do miss you-all, all of us did.”

“Oh, I’ve missed you-all. I missed it here, I couldn’t believe—”

“Your store, though. If that’s not the darlingest little old store I ever did see.”