Little Sacrifices (26 page)

‘Duncan?’

‘Hmm?’

‘I think I understand now.’

He nodded, smiling his old smile at me.

Duncan thought that since I was suddenly so interested in my family heritage, I ought to learn a little about Savannah’s Jews. This was where having a history–loving father came in handy. Duncan was always happy to digest voluminous facts and regurgitate the important bits for me. At first glance the city looked pretty waspish but, in fact, it had a sizeable Jewish population. They were among the city’s first settlers, arriving on Oglethorpe’s heels. It took them nearly five months at sea to get here and, later, other families followed. The new community perked merrily along until the War of Jenkins’ Ear. The now–famous ear belonged to one Captain Robert Jenkins, a British merchant seaman who had the bad luck to meet a Spanish coastguardsman with a fiery temper and a grudge against Englishmen. Mister Jenkins had his ear cropped off by the Spaniard, but instead of feeding it to the fishes, the bleeding Limey saved it. Almost a decade later he showed the well–preserved but no doubt unsightly ear to the House of Commons, and the ensuing public outrage left the Prime Minister no choice but to declare war on Spain. When Spanish ships landed at St. Simons Island, the Sephardic Savannahians high–tailed it to Charleston. Having a long–standing mistrust of the Spaniards and their Inquisitive ways, they weren’t willing to wait around to see what fate had in store for them. In any event, the Spanish never got off St. Simons Island. England eventually won the war and, after a little time, Savannah’s Sephardics returned home.

Their legacy was Mikve Israel, where we were going to temple. It was one of the oldest synagogues in the country but it looked more like a cathedral, until you got close enough to notice the six pointed star over the door.

Inside, I scooted into the last row, but Ma hauled me out by the arm. ‘Come on. Down front. You wanted to be here and there’s no use sitting back here where you can’t see what’s going on.’ She strode right down the middle aisle to the front like she owned the place. Why shouldn’t she? I tried to make myself invisible as we apologized our way past the people in the aisle. Even Duncan looked self–conscious, though I put that down to the yarmulke Ma made him wear. Sunlight beamed through stained glass windows, bouncing against the white walls. Pillars stretched into arches near the roof, giving further evidence of the temple’s neo–Gothic leanings. Once we sat down, anonymity cloaked me again. I looked back to watch the organist playing in the balcony above the entrance.

When the rabbi caused a stir at the altar, everyone settled down for the service. It was mainly in Hebrew, the same way that Catholic masses were mostly in Latin. Religious leaders from every faith seemed bent on keeping their flocks in the dark. When the rabbi finally got around to delivering his sermon, he did it in English. I dearly wished he’d stuck to the Semitic tongue. My father started to huff as he muttered. Ma looked daggers at him over my head. The new state of Israel was the reason for Duncan’s rising blood pressure. When the United Nations carved out part of Palestine for a Jewish homeland a couple of weeks earlier, it took Israel’s Arab neighbors less than a day to march into the brand new country. According to Duncan, the whole mess was Britain’s fault. When they won Palestine from the Ottomans in World War I they made promises to the Palestinians and the Jews about the selfsame piece of land. They didn’t manage to deliver on either front, and by the nineteen forties they washed their hands of the whole mess, leaving the UN to settle the issue. Which they did. Which no one liked. The Israelis ultimately won the war but in those early days the outcome was still up for grabs, and lots of people were getting killed on both sides. The rabbi thought we’d better throw our prayers in with the Israeli camp to help them obliterate their Arab neighbors. His appeal didn’t strike me as overly spiritual. I kept my prayers as neutral as Switzerland. The service ran twice as long as my patience. By the time we left, I looked forward to Duncan’s fuming ruminations to add a little life to the day. Though I longed to find in Judaism a piece of the puzzle that I’d missed my entire life, it wasn’t any more enlightening than church.

I said so to Ma when she asked me, and she said she wasn’t surprised. ‘It’s not about going to temple, any more than being Catholic is about going to mass. It’s the feeling of belonging to something bigger than you, something that’s been around for three thousand years. And believing in God.’

‘I think maybe I’ll just believe in God for a while and see how that goes.’

She smiled. ‘You want to know a secret? I do believe in God.’

‘You do? But what about Duncan?’

‘I know. There are a lot of things we don’t agree on. On the matter of God, I just go along with him. It makes him happy and it’s no skin off my nose. I still believe what I want. It’s what’s in your heart that’s important.’

I was glad to see my mother’s gumption, even if it was covert. ‘Then I guess this’ll be our secret.’

‘I guess it will.’ It was the first time I’d kept a secret
with
Ma in a long time. It felt good.

Chapter 37

Lottie came to visit at the beginning of the summer just like she promised. The air in the terminal was charged with anticipation, and slightly redolent with body odor. Bus stations, like airports and train depots, were among the most emotional places around, with everyone saying either hello or goodbye. A lot of hugging went on either way. My best friend was first off the bus. We hugged and squealed hello. She looked just the same, dark and petite and pretty as ever, though a little the worse for wear. Her eyes darted here and there.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘You wouldn’t believe the trip I’ve had! Almost the whole way down here most of the other people on the bus were
black
.’ She whispered the word, like she’d said cancer.

‘Lottie, you don’t have to lower your voice. They know what color they are.’  Ma flashed me a smile. ‘Anyway, what’s the big deal?’ I heaved her bag onto the front seat.

‘I just had no idea. I mean,
everyone’s
black.’ She clutched her pocketbook closer.

‘Half Savannah’s black. Didn’t you know?’

‘I thought most Southerners were white, that’s all.’

‘Yeah well, that’s what they’d like you to think. Don’t worry, no one’s going to bite you.’ Ma and I laughed. It took Lottie a few seconds to join us.

I couldn’t keep from gabbling in the car about every building, park, and person in the city. Every time we stopped, the sound of sharpening knives drifted through the window to remind me that the cicadas were courting in the squares. While we drove, I tried to look at Savannah through Lottie’s eyes. She would have seen a tranquil Southern town, slow–paced and proud despite its decay, or maybe because of it. The air was white–hot and sticky. No one moved too quickly or spoke too loud and even the cars only crept along, though that was due  more to their sheer number than their drivers’ dispositions. It was a beautiful city and I was proud of it. I smiled out the window. I was proud of my city.

Lottie’s face swiveled from window to window as she politely listened to me babble. She was most impressed with the Southern look of everything, she said, the moss dripping from the trees and palms dotting the sidewalks. And the broken down old houses intrigued her. She’d love Bonaventure, and I knew she was going to have a ball with Jim. I said so.

‘You know you’ve picked up a Southern accent.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, I have not.’

‘Do too. Listen to yourself.’

‘Ma! I don’t have an accent, do I?’

‘I don’t think so, but I listen to you every day. Maybe you are picking up a little bit.’ To me it sounded like Lottie had the accent, fast and clipped and unduly harsh compared to Jim and Fie.

We’d have passed the whole week gossiping in my bedroom if Ma had let us. But she had ideas about the value of fresh air and threw us outside to reacquaint ourselves. I steered Lottie along the same route Jim had used to introduce me to the city. I was surprised we were stumbling so hard over each other’s words. It took most of the walk to get back in to a rhythm. She talked about all the kids we knew, and I conveyed suitably homesick sentiments. Courtesy seemed to demand as much misery as possible away from my friend. I told her about Fie and Jim and she told me about the new friends she’d made. As Lottie talked, I was struck by an unkind thought. I wasn’t as happy to see her as I assumed I’d be. I wondered if she harbored the same feelings.

We ambled along the squares in town, stopping every so often to gape at lost grandeur. As always, it was sad to see the houses in such a state, as if the grand lady had been brought low, and forgotten all about her noble birth. I stopped us in front of one house I knew well.

‘Would you look at that?’ Lottie whistled, walking closer.

‘Where are you going? Lottie, no.’

‘What? Nobody lives there, do they?’

‘No, but.’

‘Come on.’ She picked her way carefully up the broken stairs.

‘Lottie, someone owns the house. It’s trespassing. We can’t go in.’

‘Why not? Who’s going to stop us? Come on, what are you fussed about? Nobody’ll see us.’

‘They might. Lottie! Come down from there.’ She’d never have gone into somebody else’s house in Williamstown.

She turned back, frowning. ‘What’s the matter with you, May? Who cares if someone sees us? What are they going to do, arrest us?’

‘Maybe. Look, Lottie, it might not be a big deal to you but I have to live here. These are my neighbors.’

‘May Elena Powell! You’re talking like you think this is your home! What do you care if some snotty old Southerner catches you in his house?’ Her question was no question at all.

‘I don’t.’ I ran past her up the steps and put my shoulder to the door. ‘Shhh! Hurry up.’ I giggled over the splintering doorjamb.

Milky light diffused the front room, as if we’d opened our eyes underwater. Once upon a time the walls were painted, but a grayish–green mold had been more recently applied, spreading along the plaster like a spilled glass of juice. It was clammy despite the heat. The ceilings soared above us, blooming with giant roses wherever chandeliers dangled. Shrouded furniture crouched around the dusty wood floor. When I peeked under the closest lump, Lottie shrieked to watch out for mice. I answered her scream and dropped the sheet. ‘You look.’ She grasped an end and yanked the sheet with a flourish. The sofa, like the house, was once beautiful. Its delicately carved legs were steady, though its guts spilled onto the floor. Small strips of pale blue silk clung to the edges. ‘Stamp your feet,’ Lottie advised. As we put our heels to the floorboards I started to giggle. Lottie followed suit. We stamped harder and laughed harder. I couldn’t stop. Tears streamed down my face. ‘Careful,’ she bawled. ‘We’ll wake the dead!’ The thought sobered me. ‘That’s enough.’ We raced through the room unveiling the bygone beauties, one after another. Rolled up Persian carpets balanced between side tables and a once–grand piano contemplated its fate near the front window. I imagined it was all mine, every last moldy stick.

The staircase protested our weight as we climbed to the second floor. I turned my knuckles white gripping the banister. Venturing upstairs was like stepping into a coat closet with the lights off. A disorientating funk choked the air. The stormy years had found their way through the ceiling in the first bedroom. The floor was spongy, the dustcovers sprouting tiny grey mushrooms. It smelled fertile. There were many more rooms along the hall, but exploring any further meant risking our necks on the wavy floor. Even Lottie wasn’t that plucky.

We settled back downstairs where it was relatively lovely, testing out a couple of the less mouse–harried chairs. Our intrusion was a grand adventure. To finally be in the house where the path of Mirabelle’s life had been set made me wistful. It was the epicenter of the Reynolds family history where, like ripples on a pond, a single fateful decision moved in widening circles over the lives of generations. ‘What a place,’ whistled my friend. ‘Can you imagine living here?’

I could and said so.

She stared at me. ‘Do you think you’ll ever come home, May?’

Home. A year ago home was a little town leaning on the edge of Western Massachusetts. I was born, raised and thought I’d die a Williamstonian. It was remarkable how fifteen years, no more than a blink across a lifetime, could root one in place. It wasn’t even like my parents were born there. They moved there in the middle of the Depression, when I was still in diapers, so Duncan could teach college history. In those days he was lucky to find a job at all. Miraculously, though, our adopted hometown remained untouched by the rack and ruin tearing through the rest of the country. There weren’t any factory jobs to lose and the college continued much as it always had, though some of the students went the way of their families’ fortunes, disappearing without warning. My parents took our neighbors’ advice and tucked their savings away at the Williamstown Savings Bank. There, the trustees kept their heads, whether through strength of moral fiber or lack of opportunity, and because of that, everyone kept their savings. Williamstown was a good place to be from. Until a year ago I thought it was the best place in the world to live. I answered my best friend truthfully. ‘I don’t know.’

She knew the answer before she asked. ‘Come on, I’m bored.’ She started snooping through the drawers and cabinets. ‘Hey, look here.’ She held napkins embroidered with flowers along the edge. ‘There’s a whole bunch of material here. Come on, help me.’ Together we pulled out all the linen. A curly R adorned each napkin. Softly, Lottie ran her hands over the tablecloth, looking for holes. She counted the napkins. Then she rolled them into a ball and stuffed them under her sweater.

‘What are you doing?’

‘A little memento of Savannah.’

‘You can’t take those. They belong to someone.’

‘What’s eating you? Who’s going to know? If they didn’t take them in the first place, they couldn’t have cared that much about them.’