The Three Miss Margarets (22 page)

So when she drove home from the police station, she slowed down as she reached Miss Li’l Bit’s driveway. Then she speeded up and passed it. Miss Li’l Bit was too tough to tackle on her first try. She headed for Dr. Maggie’s place. Her teeth were doing the castanet thing in double time.

Chapter Twenty-two

M
AGGIE SAT AT HER KITCHEN TABLE
checking off items on her list for the funeral. She had chosen the hymns and the scripture readings with Lottie’s minister. There would be no viewing of the body and no announcement of the event in the papers. Time and place would be spread by word of mouth only. These were Vashti’s orders, typed on her computer when she first got her diagnosis two years ago, back when she still wasn’t in touch with any of them. When Maggie, Peggy, Li’l Bit, and Lottie still thought Vashti hated them and were heartbroken about it.

But then, of course, they did hear from Vashti, and she told them what she needed from them and their hearts were broken again. But they were happy too, because Vashti was back. Vashti had that effect on all of them. It had been that way from the beginning.

F
OR
L
OTTIE IT WAS
love at first sight. And it was clear the feeling was mutual. From the moment they laid eyes on each other, grandmother and granddaughter shared something special.

“She’s so smart, Maggie,” Lottie said. “Look at the way she watches what’s going on.” And it did seem as if the bright eyes in Vashti’s round baby face took in everything that happened around her.

Before Vashti could walk, Lottie brought her to the clinic. Riding high in her grandmother’s arms she would point an imperious pudgy finger at an object and Lottie would carry her over to inspect whatever it was that had caught her attention, telling her what it was clearly and slowly. Sometimes Maggie would be pressed into service when Lottie didn’t know the correct technical name for a piece of medical equipment. On Lottie’s orders, no one ever spoke baby talk to the child.

As soon as Vashti could toddle, Lottie walked hand in hand with her through the fields where Lottie and Maggie used to run, teaching the child the names of trees and plants. By the time she was three, Lottie had taught her to read. By the time she was four, Vashti was sitting under the old magnolia tree with her books.

For Maggie, it was like seeing Lottie all over again. Actually, it was like seeing the carefree creature Lottie could have been if she’d had gentle Nella for a mother.

Nella turned out to be full of surprises. One day she showed up at the clinic with Vashti right before Maggie was about to close up. Vashti was wearing her best dress with matching hair bows.

“Would you take her to Miss Li’l Bit’s when you go today?” Nella asked.

“You want me to take the baby?”

“I want Miss Peggy and Miss Li’l Bit to get to know her like you do.” Nella bent down to fluff the ruffled skirt of Vashti’s dress. “Momma thinks because I’m not smart I don’t see how smart Vashti is. But I see. And I know this baby is gonna need the best of everything. Miss Peggy and Miss Li’l Bit and you, you can do things for Vashti that I can’t. So I want you all to love her.”

It was like Nella to plot and admit it. “What does Richard think?” Maggie asked. Nella’s husband was a proud man who had let it be known that he was not thrilled about his mother-in-law’s white lady friends. He had a good job on the new Garrison Gardens security force, and his dream was that one day he’d make enough money so Nella could stop working there as a maid. He wanted his own house. It embarrassed him to live in the place that Lottie’s former employers had given her. He bragged that neither he nor Nella had ever worked as servants for a private family.

“Richard’s mad at me,” Nella said. “He says we don’t need any help from white people. Vashti’s going to grow up with black pride, and that’s enough.”

“I suppose that’s understandable,” Maggie said carefully.

“The man’s a fool. Vashti will have all the black pride she needs. But she’s going to have everything a little white child has too—as much as I can get for her, anyway. So would you take her with you? I’ll come get her after half an hour. She’ll be good.”

And before she knew it, Nella was gone and Maggie was alone with Vashti. It was, she realized, the first time she’d ever been responsible for a young child who wasn’t a patient.

“Uh . . . we’re going to meet some friends of mine,” she told the child, who nodded solemnly and slid her hand into Maggie’s.

“Yes, ma’am,” Vashti said.

Peggy and Li’l Bit seemed as overwhelmed as Maggie was by the addition to their little group. After Maggie made the introductions and Vashti had said, “How do you do, ma’am” twice, all four of them stood on the porch staring at one another. Finally Peggy was inspired to say, “What a pretty little girl you are.”

Obviously this was familiar territory for Vashti. “Yes, ma’am,” she said. “I’m smart too.”

This hooked Li’l Bit, who squatted down to be at eye level with her. Not to be outdone, Vashti squatted down too. This made Li’l Bit and Peggy and Maggie giggle, which seemed to tickle the child, who let out a surprisingly big laugh for such a little person. Then Li’l Bit brought Vashti a Coke and a sandwich. And the little girl chatted with them. Her mother showed up to take her away before any of them had a chance to get bored, and the three childless women fell in love with Nella’s baby.

Nella was masterful in the way she handled her campaign. Knowing she was dealing with women who were not used to small children, she never let Vashti overstay her welcome. The child was always polite, funny, and bright—and whisked away before she or her hostess of the afternoon could get tired of each other.

“We’re being courted,” Peggy told the others once, when they were on the porch by themselves. And they agreed. But they didn’t care. Vashti filled a need for all of them. And Nella knew it.

Each gave to the child in her own way. Maggie bought her pretty dresses with matching hats, and Peggy gave her a mountain of toys, including a bright blue tricycle that she insisted Vashti ride around the mezzanine of her house one afternoon when Dalt was out of town. Li’l Bit bought books for her and told her stories about W.E.B. Du Bois, Brown
v.
Board of Education of Topeka, Thurgood Marshall, and Rosa Parks. And when Richard protested that he didn’t need a white lady teaching his daughter black history, Nella told him to hush.

When Vashti was old enough for school, Nella asked for help for the first time.

“Vashti’s way ahead of the other children, but you know they’re not going to let a black child skip a grade,” she told Maggie. “I want her to go to the Catholic school.”

She was right. The recently integrated public school system was in chaos, and white teachers forced to teach black children discriminated in hundreds of ways. A parochial school was Vashti’s best hope for a decent education.

So Maggie spoke to her priest, Li’l Bit picked up the cost of the tuition, and Peggy saw to it that Vashti had pocket money for extras. Richard said she didn’t need them, but Nella told him to hush again.

At the end of Vashti’s first year at Sacred Heart Academy, Peggy, Maggie, and Li’l Bit sat between Nella and Lottie with Richard in the auditorium and applauded like their lives depended on it while Vashti, who was one of five black kids in the school, walked away with more awards than anyone else.

And Lottie’s face shone with a happiness it hadn’t had since the days when she and Maggie planned to go to college together and Lottie was going to save the world.

Vashti was clearly destined to be a star. Maggie, Peggy, and Li’l Bit were all grateful to be a part of the child’s life. Which made it even harder during the bad years when she hated them.

T
HE FRONT DOORBELL WAS RINGING
. Puzzled, Maggie went to answer it. No one who knew her used her front door. Even Jehovah’s Witnesses came to the kitchen. Some stranger must have gotten lost, she thought. She opened the door to Laurel McCready.

I
T HAD TAKEN
L
AUREL
three trips around the pie-shaped piece of land to get up the nerve to drive up to Dr. Maggie’s house, get out of her car, and knock on the door. And having done this, it was taking all the nerve she had left to keep herself from running back to the car and hauling ass out of there. But then the door opened. And the enemy was standing in front of her. When did she get so small? Laurel wondered. And weary looking?

The last time Laurel had been face-to-face with Dr. Maggie had been at the hospital when Sara Jayne lay dying. All three of the Miss Margarets had tried to help Laurel during that time. Dr. Maggie had offered to monitor Sara Jayne’s treatment for a fraction of what Laurel’s doctor was charging. Naturally, Laurel turned her down. Let’s hear it again for loyalty, Ma.

Dr. Maggie pulled herself up to her full height of five feet. “Laurel, what a pleasant surprise,” she said, in a voice that had an old-lady quiver in it. “Please come in.”

Laurel nodded and followed her into a living room filled with family photographs in silver frames. A large dog was sleeping on a brightly colored mat by an old wingback chair. “Can I offer you something?” Dr. Maggie asked. Laurel shook her head silently. Soon she was going to have to start making some sounds.

“Dr. Maggie, I”—she cleared her throat—”I know what a loss it must be to you. Vashti Johnson’s death.”

Dr. Maggie’s low voice corrected her. “It’s a loss to the entire country.”

“Right. But it’s a very personal loss to you and Miss Peggy and Miss Li’l Bit.”

This time it was Dr. Maggie who nodded, and Laurel could tell that she didn’t trust herself to speak.

“You must be very touched. I mean, it said a lot, the way she came back here . . . to be in the cabin. For the end.”

She got another silent, painful nod.

Feeling like a total shit, she continued. “I was kind of surprised. I guess she made it up with you—”

Suddenly Dr. Maggie found her voice. “What are you talking about, Laurel?”

Talking fast, Laurel told her what she’d overheard at the funeral parlor when Vashti came home to bury her momma and threw the three Miss Margarets out.

“I don’t remember that ever happening,” Dr. Maggie said firmly without even a hint of old-lady quiver in her voice.

“I do.”

“Laurel, dear, whatever you thought you overheard when you were eavesdropping that day, obviously you misunderstood. It was a very hard time for all of us, and I’m sure things were said that could be open to misinterpretation. Now we’re in the middle of another difficult time, and I’m afraid it’s made me very tired. If you’ll excuse me. . . .”

Laurel knew she hadn’t misinterpreted anything. But Dr. Maggie started out, leaving her with no option but to follow or try a flying tackle on a little old lady.

At the front door, Dr. Maggie turned to her. “The past belongs to old fuddy-duddies like me, Laurel. Please don’t let it drag you down.” There was something urgent about the way she said it.

Laurel hadn’t even started on the questions she wanted to ask about the night her father died. But the fragile little creature who was practically fainting from fatigue had her on the run. “Yes, ma’am, I’ll let you get some rest,” she said, in a respectful tone she hadn’t used since high school,

In the car she kicked herself for being a wimp.

I
N THE HOUSE
, Maggie sat and waited for her pulse to stop racing. Part of her had wanted to break down and tell the girl what she had every right to know, but she couldn’t do that without Peggy and Li’l Bit agreeing. They were joined at the hip on this. It was worse than a legal contract or shaking hands on a spit pact when you were a child.

Finally she went to the phone and dialed. “Peggy darling,” she said, “you need to know what just happened.”

Chapter Twenty-three

I
N SPITE OF THE FACT
that there was no formal announcement of Vashti’s funeral in the
Gazette,
Laurel had talked Hank into letting her go just in case they wanted to cover it after the fact.

The church was filled with white flowers. White roses and camellias decorated the altar and the pews. White wicker baskets full of white lilies lined the walls. According to the woman who sat next to Laurel, the Funeral Dinner Committee had set up a reception in the Fellowship Hall for folks to go to after the burial. Vashti hadn’t wanted a big funeral, but the church ladies had done themselves proud on the buffet out of respect for Miss Lottie.

Laurel listened to this recital and nodded knowingly, trying to act as if she was a regular churchgoer and not a sinner who hadn’t set foot inside a house of worship since her mother died.

The local black community had turned out in force to say good-bye to Lottie’s granddaughter, and the church was packed. There was a good showing of white faces too. A few of them who were old enough to have worked with Nella or Lottie were wearing Garrison Gardens uniforms. In one corner a group of men and women huddled together looking lost. All of them wore dark suits made of heavy fabrics that did not figure in a Georgia wardrobe. “They worked with Vashti,” said Laurel’s informant. “They called the police to find out where the funeral was and flew all night long from the West Coast.”

Lottie was in her wheelchair in the position of honor at the front of the church. She sat there silently receiving condolences, never once shedding a tear. A young nurse from the home hovered over her protectively. People stopped by her briefly, saying a few words, to which she responded with a nod; sometimes she reached out to take a hand in her good one. The nurse seemed to have assigned herself the job of timekeeper, so no one lingered too long.

And in the back of the church, in the very last pew, Miss Peggy, Miss Li’l Bit, and Dr. Maggie sat together. Everyone in town knew they had planned and paid for everything.

The service began with the choir singing, and the church was filled with the sound of celebration and sorrow. Then the minister came down front and started preaching Vashti Johnson home.

Though she tried to fight it, Laurel couldn’t help comparing this funeral with another one. At that funeral there had been no choir singing their hearts out. The minister had not known the woman who died and had not liked what he had heard of her. Only Denny and his mama sat with Laurel in the front pew.

The choir launched into “Peace in the Valley,” and Laurel’s eyes filled. There was no way to stop it. At the front of the church, the nurse had angled Lottie’s wheelchair so she could see the congregation. As Laurel wiped her eyes, she thought she saw Lottie watching her.

Finally the church part of the service was over. People began filing out to go to the graveyard.

Laurel held back, waiting to follow the others, and found herself alone in the doorway with Lottie and her caretaker. They seemed to be stuck. Someone had put an afghan over Lottie’s lap, and the fringe had caught in one of the chair’s wheels.

“Let me help,” Laurel said to the nurse. She knelt down to extricate the fringe. When she looked up, her eyes met those of the silent woman sitting in the chair. “I’m Laurel Selene McCready,” she said. “Do you remember me?”

She didn’t expect an answer, certainly not more than the little nod of the head everyone else had been getting, but Lottie said, “Y . . . es, Laurel.” She reached out her hand, and Laurel took it without thinking.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, “about your granddaughter.” And then, for reasons she would never understand, she blurted out, “I want to thank you—for all those times . . . the food . . . years ago. I never did thank you—” But Lottie was shaking her head.

“No,” she said. “No . . . thanks.”

“Miss Lottie, they’ll be waiting for you,” said the nurse behind them. The hand holding Laurel’s gave it a gentle squeeze, and then Laurel stood up and followed Lottie to the cemetery.

The minister invited everyone at the graveside to come to the reception. Laurel started to go inside with the rest, but then she stopped. A tall bulky figure had broken away from the crowd and headed toward the graveyard. Miss Li’l Bit was going back to say good-bye again.

Good manners, decency, and common sense said it was a lousy time to try to question the woman. On the other hand, she just might be off guard. Laurel started after Miss Li’l Bit, only to have her arm grasped firmly from behind and to feel herself being forced to turn around. The scent of bourbon was in the air. She found herself face-to-face with Miss Peggy.

“Laurel, how nice,” said Miss Peggy, as if they’d just bumped into each other casually—and as if her hand wasn’t doing a remarkably good imitation of a tourniquet on Laurel’s arm. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you.”

Years of dealing with a drunk had taught Laurel to read the signs. Miss Peggy had had more than a few. However, her blue eyes were sharp.

“I’m sure you know how close I am to Li’l Bit and Maggie,” Miss Peggy said, in a chatty voice. “We’ve gotten in the habit of taking care of one another. You’ll understand how protective you can be about your friends when you get older, dear, and they’re all you have.” She paused. “Li’l Bit and Maggie are kind of frail now, and all of this is very hard on them. They loved Vashti a great deal, and they’ve gotten to the age where they don’t take loss as well as they did when they were young. I’d hate for either of them to be fussed at, Laurel. Especially today.”

“I have a few questions I want to ask Miss Li’l Bit.”

“I’m sure you understand this isn’t the time to ask them.”

“When would be a good time?”

“Laurel, dear, perhaps you didn’t understand me. I don’t want Maggie and Li’l Bit to be hurt. Ever. Now, I’m sure Hank would have a hard time replacing you, because you really do keep his newspaper going, but he wouldn’t want to lose all the advertising money he gets from Garrison Gardens resort either. And I do have influence with the board.” She paused to let the threat sink in.

Laurel was torn between admiration at her balls-out honesty and wanting to smack her. Miss Peggy seemed to understand, because she smiled sympathetically.

“I’m too old to be afraid of anyone anymore, Laurel,” she said. “And I will take care of my own.” She turned and walked to her car as Laurel watched.

As soon as Miss Peggy’s car had pulled out of the church parking lot, Laurel got into her own. She opened the car window to get some air, and in the side mirror she saw that she and Miss Peggy had not been alone. Lottie, minus her faithful caretaker, was sitting on the porch of the church in her wheelchair, looking in Laurel’s direction. Laurel wondered how long she’d been there. She started her car and drove out of the parking lot. In her rearview mirror she saw that Lottie was watching her go.

M
AGGIE HAD STAYED AFTER
the funeral to help with the cleanup, but it was clear the Funeral Dinner Committee had everything in hand. She was starting out the door when the nurse who was attending Lottie came up to her.

“Miss Lottie wants to see you,” the girl said. She took Maggie out to the parking lot, where Lottie’s chair was next to the nursing-home van.

“Have to talk . . . Maggie,” Lottie said.

“Of course. I’ll come see you tomorrow.”

“No. Now.” Lottie looked up at the nurse standing behind her chair and indicated the church cemetery. “Over . . . there,” she said.

“Yes, Miss Lottie.”

“I’m not sure—” Maggie began, but the girl had already started pushing the chair.

They stopped at Vashti’s grave. The little nurse murmured something about Miss Lottie not tiring herself by staying too long and melted away. Lottie and Maggie were alone.

Maggie forced herself to look down. Vashti’s new grave was a red clay wound in the green lawn. White flowers from the church covered it like a massive bandage. It’s too soon to come here, Lottie, she wanted to say. The ground is too raw and so are we. Give me a few days to get it prettier in my mind. Then I’ll come with you and look. But Lottie wasn’t looking down at the ground. Her eyes were raised up to Maggie’s face. The hand in Maggie’s tightened its grip. “It’s time . . . Maggie,” Lottie said.

B
Y THE TIME SHE GOT HOME
from work on Monday, Laurel had spent the better part of the day beating up on herself. She had gone to a funeral where she had no business being and harassed two old ladies, just because Sherilynn had a conspiracy theory. She told herself it had to stop.

She fixed dinner, taking much longer than usual to eat and to clean up the kitchen. She washed her hair and dried it. She made a halfhearted attempt to do her toenails.

Finally, she gave in. She went to the closet, got the snapshots and the birthday card out of the box, and spread them out on the coffee table. Young John Merrick stared at her from the pictures, looking eager and sincere. I wasn’t as bad as they said I was, he seemed to be saying. She couldn’t ignore him.

So what if Sara Jayne was right? What if something else did happen the night Grady shot her father, and the three Miss Margarets were lying about it? Why would they do that? She wondered vaguely if there might be some point in asking Sherilynn for her daddy’s phone number and calling him. He was retired and living on his boat in Florida. But what could she say? “Did you guys get it all wrong on the biggest case that ever hit this town?” seemed a bit tactless.

She opened the birthday card and read the inside again. Then she reread it. John had mentioned some kind of job, one that was important enough to warrant a story in the
Gazette.
How long would it take to go through the newspaper morgue and see if there was any mention of a job for John Merrick? Laurel had a key to the building.

She looked at her watch. It was after nine. She should stay home, watch a little television, and go to bed. She got her purse and headed out.

L
I’L
Bi
T HUNG UP THE PHONE
wearily. For the past two hours she and Peggy and Maggie had been making marathon calls, arguing back and forth until all three of them were exhausted. At first she and Peggy had stood together, solidly opposed to what Maggie wanted to do. Then Peggy began to waver, worn down by the force of Maggie’s hoarse tired voice repeating the same arguments, the lateness of the hour, and possibly the refills of Gentleman Jack that Li’l Bit heard splashing over ice cubes on the phone. Finally Peggy capitulated and Li’l Bit was left alone, still insisting that she would never go along with them.

A
T A LITTLE AFTER THREE IN THE MORNING
, Laurel rubbed her burning eyes and looked around the windowless basement room that was the
Charles Valley Gazette
’s morgue. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d stayed up this late when sex and/or music hadn’t been involved.

The morgue consisted of floor-to-ceiling filing cabinets filled with old newspapers in oak-tag folders—no microfiche or computer files here. Some of the papers were spotted and smelled of mold; others were crumbly dry and brownish yellow. She had already worked her way through the month her father was killed, the three months preceding his death, and the two months following it.

The reporting on the story was terse, which was to be expected in a newspaper that could have been shut down with a snap of Mr. Dalt’s fingers. In late November there was an announcement of John Merrick’s death from a gunshot wound in a brief column placed on the front page below the fold. No space had been wasted on journalistic frills like who, what, where, why, or when. There was no mention of Grady Garrison or Nella Johnson, no mention of witnesses. The bulk of the piece was devoted to the history of the deceased’s checkered past and previous problems with the law.

Two weeks later another story appeared—this one buried on the back page of the paper—that informed the reader that Grady Garrison had admitted to second-degree murder in the accidental shooting of John Merrick during an altercation. Sentencing would follow.

That was it. No mention at all of a job. Frustrated, Laurel bundled the papers into their folders, put them back into the file cabinets, and left.

By the time she got home she was past frustration and into depression.

She walked into her cramped living room and turned slowly, taking in every corner and article of furniture. “This is my life,” she said out loud. “I live in a house I hate with the sofa I used to sleep on as a kid because Ma never got around to buying me a bed. I’ve got a wall full of old books from my dead daddy, the murderer. I live with ghosts.”

She ran to the closet in the bedroom, pulled out the carton of junk, took it into the kitchen, and threw it in the trash. Then, just for good measure, she dumped the remains of the grits on it.

Which accomplished exactly nothing. She knew that. Because even if she locked the door on this place and ran to New York to be with Josh, a part of her would still be trying to make things right for her ma. And she’d still be hoping her daddy wasn’t a mindless animal who killed a man so he could screw the widow.

She sat on the sofa and looked at the wall of books. “I’m trapped,” she said.

That was when she noticed she had a message on her answering machine.