The Goodbye Summer (12 page)

Cornel blushed. Caddie wouldn’t have believed it if she hadn’t seen it.

Edgie finally guessed him—Caddie thought she’d known for a long time but enjoyed dragging the questions out—and Claudette sent around the next slip of paper. “Magill,” it said, and Edgie’s sister, Bea, was the guesser. “Complete the sentence,” she said. “This is the kind of person who—”

“Shouldn’t be here,” Edgie answered promptly.

“You just want to hug,” said Maxine.

“You just want to belt one,” said Cornel.

Caddie thought for a second. “Makes me laugh.”

Magill’s turn. He had on baggy khakis and a gray T-shirt, and whoever had cut his hair last had taken too much off the sides. He looked like a POW. Pensively, rasping the whiskers on his unshaved chin, he said, “Bears an uncanny resemblance to Antonio Banderas.”

Bea guessed him after the first round.

The next piece of paper said “Doré Harris.”
Uh-oh,
Caddie thought. What kind of tree was this person, asked Bernie, the guesser. A tall, stately elm, someone said; somebody mentioned Japanese maple.

“Ginkgo,” Maxine Harris answered with relish. “One of those messy trees that drop their sticky leaves all over and make a nuisance.”

Everybody made a point of not looking at Doré.

What kind of car?

“An Edsel,” Maxine said.

What kind of jewelry?

“A choker.”

What kind of person?

“The kind you better not turn your back on.”

Doré got up and walked out of the room.

It almost ended the game. Awkward, embarrassed, fascinated silence fell; even Maxine looked a little shocked at herself. But pretty Claudette said, “Well! Plenty of names left, shall we keep going?” She pretended so well that nothing was amiss, people decided to believe her.

Another slip of paper went around, and Caddie read her name on it.

The article of clothing she most reminded people of was a long, flowered skirt.

Her tree was willow; three people said so, although two said sapling. Magill said a white dogwood tree—she liked that. Thea said, “Is mountain laurel a tree? I’m saying mountain laurel, because it’s shy and blooms in the dark. It cheers up the forest.”

Old Mr. Lorton was the guesser this time. Caddie thought he knew who it was already—they’d gotten pretty well acquainted when she’d written his “We Remember” piece—and he just wanted to keep the game going. “Fill in the blank,” he instructed in his gruff voice—he had to clear his throat constantly. “This is the kind of person who.”

“Wears flannel pajamas,” Maxine said. “I bet.”

“Catches bugs and lets ’em go outside.” Cornel pulled his mouth sideways to show he didn’t think that was much of a compliment.

“Tips too much,” said Bernie. “Never got a speeding ticket.”

“People can talk to,” said Edgie.

“People can ask a favor of,” said Bea.

Magill sat with his elbows on his knees, hands loose and drooping between his spidery legs. “Laughs at your jokes whether they’re funny or not. So you won’t feel bad.”

Caddie said, “Your turn, Nan.”

“Hm?” She looked again at the name on her slip of paper. “What’s the question?”

“This is the kind of person who.”

“This is the kind of person you clean your language up for when they’re around.”

All the men nodded.

Caddie was still smarting from flannel pajamas. “Loves to dance,” she blurted out. “And sing in the shower. Really loud.”

Thea went last. She looked down, smoothing the edge of the sofa with her hand. “Makes me wish for something I used to wish for all the time, before I got so old.” She looked up, smiling. “That’s all I’m saying, or you’ll guess.”

Mr. Lorton said he thought the person might be Caddie.

She sat still, trying to concentrate on the next person to guess but really replaying everybody’s impressions of herself. No surprise that people liked her and said what they considered—she wasn’t so sure—nice things about her; sometimes she felt like the house mascot, or as if she had eight or nine brand-new doting grandparents. It was nice to be clucked over—she never had been before. Thanks to Nana and Thea, they knew about Christopher, and now she couldn’t have a conversation, not even hi, how are you, without being asked, “How’s that new boyfriend? Taking good care of you, is he? When are you bringing him over so we can get a look at him?”

In a way, her life was perfect right now, because—it just occurred to her—really, she was living
two
lives: a child’s and an adult’s. The child had this big house she could come to any time she liked, full of kind, sympathetic parent figures who truly wanted the best for her, and meanwhile the adult had the most exciting lover she’d ever known, a wonderful,
deepening relationship, and a sex life, a sex life that just…took her breath away. It was all so
sweet.
This was the best summer of her life. She wasn’t exactly happy—how could you be happy when you were in love? It was too nerve-racking—but she was on the right track. Definitely moving in the right direction.

“Okay, people.” Claudette stood up. “That’s it, we’ve done everybody. That was fun, wasn’t it? Okay, so for next week, I want you all to be thinking about your
best memory
from childhood. Everybody gets to tell their very best memory from when they were little—that’s the game. Okay? Okeydoke!” She started clapping, a signal the game was over, time for people to get up and go on to their next activity.

“I’m going up and lie down for a while,” Nana said.

“Need some help?”

“Nope.”

Cornel came over and plopped down on the sofa. He’d taken pains with his wild, platinum-colored hair today, slicked it down with water or maybe even hair cream; Caddie could see the fine comb tracks in the shiny surface. He had bad posture, always hunched over and in your face, as if he might attack you. He was almost six feet tall, but he had no flesh left, just stringy muscles clinging to his brittle bones. His disposition was terrible, she’d never known anybody so crabby and sour. “Best memory,” he growled, rubbing the shiny knees of his trousers. “Yeah, that’s what I wanna hear, everybody’s best memory. Can’t wait.”

Thea faced him, crossing her legs. She had on a pleated skirt, stockings, and loafers, and Caddie saw Cornel’s critical eyes travel up and down her legs, which were still in excellent shape. She wrapped her hands around one knee and cocked her eyebrow at him. “What would you rather hear, everybody’s
worst
childhood memory?”

“
Haw,
” he went, his version of a laugh. “Hell, yes, that’d be all right, wouldn’t it? Going around the room telling our most miserable memories. Then you’d have something.”

He looked so tickled, Thea laughed, too. “Cornel, what is your best memory? Tell it right now, because I don’t expect we’ll be hearing it next week.”

“Damn right. Nobody’s business.” He’d scoffed at the idea of telling Caddie the story of his life for the memory book, too; “Wait’ll I’m dead for my damn obituary” was the way he’d put it. “What’s yours?” he demanded, pointing his chin at Thea.

Caddie sat back, out of their line of sight. She felt in the way.

“Oh, you’ll have to wait. I’m a team player and I don’t want to repeat myself.”

“Haw.” He ran his thumbs up and down behind his suspenders, tilting his head, squinting his eyes. Thinking. “Okay, I got mine. Want to hear it?”

“Why, I do, I surely do.”

“It’s the time my brother and me got stuck in the schoolhouse all night in a snowstorm.”

“How old were you?”

“Ten, and Frank was eight. We’d stayed late to help Miss Kemper clean the stove. Wasn’t a punishment,” he wanted her to know, “it was a reward.”

“For…?”

“High marks and good behavior. Well, it started to snow around lunchtime, but in those days, of course, they didn’t close school down because a few flakes fell.”

“No, indeed. We were made of sterner stuff.”

He eyed her, not sure if she meant that sincerely or not. “Anyway, Miss Kemper lighted out quick when it started to pile up, and we did, too, in the other direction, but before we got too far Frank fell over a log hid in the snow and sprained his ankle. Well, home’s another mile and a half away, so we limped back to school, which was locked, so I crawled in through the cloakroom window and opened up for Frank.”

Cornel was one of those people whose mouths form a little dot of spit in the corners the longer they talk. He took care of it by a quick sweep inward with his thumb and forefinger every now and then.

“Somehow we got the stove going again—good thing, because otherwise we’d’ve froze to death. Turns out it’s a blizzard we’re having. Foodwise, Miss Kemper’s desk was a bust, not even an apple. We looked everywhere, every desk, every sweater pocket in the cloakroom, and all
we came up with was four pieces of horehound candy, some redballs, and a Rocket toffee bar.”

“Oh, I remember Rocket toffee bars,” Thea said.

“I told stories to keep Frank from getting scared. Well, keep
me
from getting scared, too. We fell asleep sometime on our coats in front of the stove, hanging on to each other like a couple of bear cubs. Afraid and all, but excited, too. Wondering what was going on at home, how they were taking our absence. Well, about daybreak our dad busts in with his red face and his snowy hair, just a
-roaring
at us. Frightened us out of our wits.”

He sat hunched over, contemplating his wrinkled hands, a faraway look in his eyes. He looked up when Thea said “Well,” in a polite, uncertain tone.

“Well, see—” He cleared his throat harshly. “It’s a good memory because he was so damn relieved. We cried and carried on, apologizing and explaining and justifying, but inside, we had this perfect kind of…”

“Joy.”

“Well, anyway.” He rubbed his cheeks, embarrassed by “joy.” “Our big, scary papa had to shout to keep from crying in front of us, and we liked that. Liked being rescued and screamed at and pummeled and hugged…” His bony shoulders shrugged, nonchalant, under his pressed white dress shirt. “I just liked it. Never forgot it.”

“No.”

He tightened his lips. “Course, they’re all dead now, Frank at age twelve in a stupid accident. They’re all gone.”

“And
your
family…”

“Dead. My wife and my son, Frank Junior.” He used the sofa arm to stand up. “So what good does a happy memory do you?” He looked angry, duped.

“Oh, happy memories are nice enough,” Thea said before he could make a solitary dramatic exit. “As long as we don’t have to stop making new ones, that is.
I
for one am not through making memories.”

“Hmph.” He stood, indecisive. “Going outside. Nice day. Wanna sit with me?”

Was he inviting both of them or just Thea? Caddie had that third-wheel feeling again.

“In a minute,” Thea answered. “I have to ask Caddie something.”

“Right.” Cornel saluted them and stalked out.

“Sheesh, what a grouch,” Thea said, smiling after him. “Why do we put up with him?”

“Because he’s sweet, deep down. Plus—I think he’s got a crush on you,” Caddie whispered.

“Oh, pooh.” She laughed and flapped her hand. Either she didn’t believe it or she was so used to men having crushes on her it didn’t impress her. “Here’s what I wanted to ask you—are you all booked up with students this summer?”

“No. Summer’s my lightest season because everybody goes on vacation. Why? You want to take lessons?”

She was kidding, but Thea wasn’t. “Yes, I do. Piano.”

“Really?”

“Well, it’s now or never. When I was little I wasn’t interested, and when I grew up there wasn’t time. Now there’s nothing but time, and nobody I want to teach me but
you.
”

“Oh, how fun! I’d love to. I’d
love
to.”

“You are the
sweetest
girl,” Thea said, and kissed her on both cheeks. “I absolutely adore you.”

Mrs. Doré Harris didn’t want Caddie to write her biography for “We Remember,” she wanted to write it herself, “an
auto
biography,” and have Caddie type it up on her computer. “I believe I’ll write it in the third person, though, so it’ll sound more
authentic.
Don’t you think? And you can turn on that spell-check thing, but I bet you won’t find a single mistake. Spelling’s always been my forte.”

Mrs. Stewart R. Harris was born Doré Arnette Sloan on April 2, 1927, in Spartanburg, South Carolina, the only daughter of Bynel and Eunice Sloan. Mr. Sloan distinguished himself
over a long career in the wholesale feed and grain trade, and Mrs. Sloan, an accomplished musician, floral arranger, and amateur watercolorist, was also famous for her unique cooking and gardening skills, which took many prizes in local fairs and contests.

Doré was a lively, attractive, studious child with many friends and interests. Her best subjects were spelling, grammar, and math, so it’s no surprise that upon graduation from Robert E. Lee High School she decided to go into the secretarial line of work. But she was also anxious to see more of the world, so when she was nineteen she moved to Washington, D.C., where she worked briefly for the phone company, honing her clerical skills. In 1948, she took a job as secretary-receptionist in the office of Dr. Drew McDonald, a noted podiatrist in the suburb of Wheaton, Maryland. Doré worked for Dr. McDonald until 1950, when the two became engaged and got married.

After a honeymoon in Miami, Florida, the couple moved into their new home in the Springfield section of Wheaton, where they particularly loved to entertain around the in-ground swimming pool. Doré was active in the Garden Club, the Welcome Committee, the Neighborhood Beautification Auxiliary, and the annual Springfield House Tour. In 1952, the couple gave birth to their only child, a beautiful daughter, Estella Doré. In 1956, Dr. McDonald was named Podiatrist of the Year by the Montgomery County Podiatry Association, and he was feted that year at the state convention in Annapolis.

In 1959, the couple separated, and in 1961 they were divorced.

Doré remained in the Springfield home for the next seven years, occupying herself with motherhood, neighborhood projects, and volunteer work, as well as trips to Paris, France; Vancouver, British Columbia; Reno, Nevada; and New York City.