“You’re saying no one there owned slaves?” she asked.
“Some did,” he admitted. “Others joined the Union Army. You just never know with mountain folks.”
She loved him, so she gave in. And then Pearl Harbor was attacked, and Charles, who’d grown up in the Volunteer State, enlisted. By the time he was sent to Italy, Bessie was pregnant. And solely responsible for the house in Knoxville. And trying to write a dissertation on Abigail Adams.
When she gave birth to their daughter in a hospital in Knoxville, Charles was in the naval hospital in Bethesda, Maryland. He’d been wounded in Sicily and was unable to walk or speak.
Never before had she felt so alone. Her own mother was in Hartford, recovering from a stroke, under Bessie’s father’s watchful eye. Bessie didn’t know the first thing about taking care of an infant, and there was no one to show her what to do.
In his letters from Italy, Charles had been urging her to hire “help” when the baby was born, by which he meant a colored maid. She found a woman named Sophie, who wanted to “live in,” wanted, for reasons she didn’t fully explain, to bring her own infant daughter along.
Bessie had rarely spoken to a Negro. Suddenly she was sharing a house with two of them. Even more than the “yes, ma’ams” and the “no, ma’ams,” she hated being called Miss Bessie.
“I call you Sophie,” she said one day. “Please, just call me Bessie. We’re employer and employee, that’s all.”
“People called my grandmother Miss Mamie till the day she died.” Sophie sounded insulted. “Want me to call you Mrs. Madison?”
Bessie heard it as Missus. Even worse. “And I would call you Mrs. Norris?”
“I s’pose.”
But nothing changed.
And when Charles finally returned home? To Sophie, he was always Mr. Madison, sometimes sir, but never, ever Mr. Charles.
Still, Bessie came to depend on Sophie, who was both her maid and the mother of her daughter’s best friend. Gail and Hanna insisted on spending every waking minute together, blissfully unaware that their friendship was an anomaly in Knoxville.
When Sophie and her family finally moved away, the summer the girls were fifteen, the complicated friendship between Gail and Hanna came to an end. Bessie had played a role in this, one she was not very proud of.
It happened on a September afternoon when, having consumed three or four mint juleps at lunch, Bessie discovered a letter from Hanna in the mailbox. She’d hidden the letter away, hoping Hanna wouldn’t write again, thinking Hanna was far too cool for that. But Hanna did write again, four letters in all. Was she angry? Upset? Bessie chose not to find out. She hid the subsequent letters, unopened, in order to cover up her initial transgression. Lettergate, it might be called now.
When she told Charles what she’d done, she blamed the mint juleps, expecting him to see right through her. But all he said was, “I thought you didn’t like bourbon.”
A familiar sound interrupted her reverie. A mail truck stopped at the end of the flagstone walk, then chugged on to the house next door.
The screen door opened, slammed shut. Sandy, whom Bessie had seen hardly at all this visit, hurried down to the mailbox, then spent some time examining the contents before returning to the house.
“Good morning,” Bessie said.
“Jeez, Granny B.,” Sandy said. “I didn’t know you were out here.”
“Anything interesting?” Bessie nodded toward the mail.
“Not to me,” Sandy said with a shrug.
Bessie followed her granddaughter inside. “How about some breakfast?”
“No, thanks.” Sandy set the mail on the hall table: a New Yorker, along with catalogs and bills.
“I’m going to make some French toast. You don’t have to eat any, but maybe you’ll keep me company in the kitchen?” Sandy had been taking most meals in her room.
Another shrug. “All right.”
Bessie gathered eggs, milk, and butter from the refrigerator. Sandy, seated, handed her two slices of bread from the loaf on the kitchen table.
“Two more slices, please,” Bessie said.
“Hungry?” Sandy said.
“Starved.”
When Bessie took down two plates and put enough silverware on the table for two people, Sandy got up and retrieved both maple and blueberry syrup from the refrigerator. Once Bessie had served the golden slices, she sat down opposite her granddaughter and watched, fascinated, as Sandy dribbled blueberry syrup on one piece of French toast and maple syrup on the other.
“What a great idea!” Bessie did the same. Then, hoping to get a conversation going, she said, “Know what I’ve dreamed of doing if your grandfather ever retires?”
“Tell me,” Sandy said.
“Island hopping our way around the world.” Bessie enumerated the destinations on her fingers. “Hawaii, Tahiti, Easter Island, the North and South Islands of New Zealand, Tasmania, Kangaroo Island, Madagascar, the Canaries, maybe the Azores. Then home to Knoxville.”
“But you’d have to charter a plane,” Sandy said.
“Exactly what your grandfather said.”
Six years earlier, when Bessie had retired, Charles had talked about doing the same. At this very minute, he was on his way to DC, claiming he needed to consult with a friend from law school about an impending trial. Charles Madison would surely die in a courtroom, clutching his heart.
“What about Haiti?” Sandy said. “Cuba?”
They heard car doors slam. By the time Gail and Allison came in the back door, their arms full of boxes from a bakery, Sandy had left the kitchen.
Today was Allison’s twelfth birthday. There would be a pool party this afternoon, followed by a family dinner at a restaurant downtown.
“Do I smell ginger?” Bessie asked.
“Yep,” Allison said. “Gingerbread cupcakes. My very favorite.”
“Don’t tell me Sandy ate breakfast with you!” Gail said.
“Half a breakfast.” Bessie wished she had the nerve to go upstairs, knock on Sandy’s door, and ask what was wrong. Instead, she put the dirty dishes in the dishwasher, took the New Yorker into the living room, and sat down on the sofa.
The brownstones on the magazine’s cover resembled the townhouses she remembered in downtown Hartford. But her last trip home had been for her father’s funeral, thirty years before. Hartford had surely changed since then.
“The party’s at two,” Gail said from the hallway. “Do you want some lunch first?”
“No, thanks.” Bessie looked up from a cartoon. “I had a late breakfast.”
Gail came into the room, spoke in a near whisper. “How on earth did you get Sandy to eat with you?”
“I asked her to keep me company, and then I made her some French toast.”
Gail, looking puzzled, just shook her head.
“Is Sandy coming to the party?” Bessie asked.
“Yes. She invited a friend, a girl her own age.”
“Good. What about dinner tonight, in the restaurant?”
“She says she’ll try,” Gail said.
“What’s going on? If you don’t mind my asking.”
Gail took a deep breath, let it out. “A friend of hers died.”
“How terrible. Had she been ill?”
“A boy. A boat exploded, near Cuba, about six months ago. He was probably on it.”
“But you’re not sure?” Bessie said.
“Not one hundred percent, no. That’s what makes it so hard.” Another, deeper breath. “It was Hanna’s son.”
“Hanna Norris?” But Bessie knew. There was no other Hanna.
“Her last name’s Pascal now.”
Bessie felt her cheeks flush. “How long have you and Hanna been in touch?”
“I tracked her down in DC the summer I waited tables in Virginia Beach.”
“But that was years ago.”
“I was planning to tell you back when Nick and I got married. I’d asked Hanna to be my maid of honor.�
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Bessie’s hand went to her throat. A colored maid of honor, at a white church, in Knoxville, Tennessee, in 1967? That would’ve been some wedding.
“But Hanna was living in Haiti then,” Gail went on. “That’s where her son was trying to go.”
“Poor Hanna.” No wonder Sandy had mentioned Cuba and Haiti.
“Yeah, she’s taking it hard.” Gail sank onto the sofa, a cushion away from Bessie. “The painting over the fireplace? Hanna sent it to us as a wedding present.”
“But you told me you found that painting at a yard sale.”
“Did I? Sorry, I don’t remember.”
“A mimosa,” Bessie said. “Like the one in our side yard.”
“This one’s Haitian. Supposedly, it has medicinal properties.”
“Your father and I would have coped,” Bessie said. “The wedding, I mean.”
“I know. That’s why I never understood why you did what you did, hiding Hanna’s letters from me. You knew how worried I was about her.”
“You’ve read the letters?” Bessie could barely breathe.
“Hanna told me she’d written, so, one time when I was home, I snooped around.”
“And where were they?”
“Folded into a girdle in one of your dresser drawers. You’re not going to faint, are you? Can I bring you some iced tea or something?”
Bessie shook her head. How could this be happening? “What was the boy’s name?”
“Peter Jeremy. Everyone called him PJ. I’m going to get you something to drink, Mother. Water, iced tea, a Coke?”
“How old was he?”
“Sixteen.”
“Were he and Sandy dating? He must be black.”
“Very,” Gail said.
“Were they dating?”
“Hanna lives in Virginia,” Gail said. “Sandy and PJ just talked on the phone a lot.”
The mimosa’s blossoms were in motion, pink sea anemones touched by an invisible current. “Does Nick know about Hanna’s letters?”
“Did Daddy know?” Gail snapped. “Of course he did. Both of you knew exactly where Hanna was and couldn’t be bothered to tell me.”
“Gail. Your parents are in their seventies now. Can’t you just let bygones be bygones? I’m glad you and Hanna are still friends. Truly, I am.”
“But why did you do it? I would never, ever confiscate my daughters’ letters, from PJ or anyone else.”
This was too much. Bessie burst into tears.
It was a pool party. In her old lady’s bathing suit and a bright blue terry-cloth cover-up, Bessie sat at a picnic table in the shade. Allison and her guests were splashing each other and giggling in the shallow end while Sandy and her friend, a dark-skinned girl from India, did cannonballs off the diving board.
“Please, have a pretzel.” Gail pushed a colorful paper plate across the table. “You’ll feel better if you have something to eat.”
The fat little log-like things were filled with bright orange cheese. “I’m fine,” Bessie said. “Stop worrying, will you?”
“Not now,” Gail said softly, “but maybe sometime, will you at least tell me why you hid Hanna’s letters?”
Bessie picked up a pretzel, sniffed it, and returned it to the plate. “Remember my friend Charlotte?”
“Did she come to the parties you and Daddy used to give?”
“No. Her husband was an invalid, so they rarely went out. She liked to bake birthday cakes for you.”
“Very tall, right? Charlotte, I mean.”
“That’s right. Well, on her fiftieth birthday, she invited me over for lunch, and Julia, her maid, served us some delicious mint juleps.” Bessie shook her head. “Guess I had one too many.”
“But you don’t even like bourbon.”
“Exactly what your father said.”
“I don’t understand. There were four letters. Were you drunk each time?”
“Can we talk about this later? Please? I’d like to go for a swim.” Bessie unbuttoned her cover-up and tried to stand. Why did picnic tables come attached to their benches these days? You had to be a goddamn gymnast to get in and out.
Swim now, talk later.
Did she say this out loud?
On her feet at last, she removed her glasses. Dark spots danced in the dizzying sunlight. Gail’s mouth was opening and closing, but Bessie couldn’t hear a word of whatever it was her daughter was saying and didn’t want to. Her head hurt, an ice cream headache, except that there was no ice cream at this birthday party, only cupcakes, fluffy brown cupcakes, hundreds of them, gingerbread with white icing, dancing around in the bright, bright sunshine like fairy toadstools. Then, as if she were looking through the wrong end of a telescope, the cupcakes coalesced and there was nothing but darkness.
She was floating near a fluffy white ceiling. Below her lay someone on a hospital bed. A woman reading a magazine sat by the window.
Something had happened, Bessie was almost certain of it. Did it happen to her?
“Hello,” she tried to say.
The woman came to the bed, took Bessie’s hand, and said something that sounded like “many strokes.” Swimming, Bessie thought. Breast stroke. Butterfly.
The woman had light brown hair and a sad little smile. She lifted a glass containing a bent straw. “Thirsty?”
The water tasted awful. Bessie pointed to the coffeepot.
“It’s cold,” the woman warned.
Bessie nodded, and the woman poured her a cup. She nodded again, and the woman tore open a packet of sugar. Bessie took a sip through the bent straw.
“You fell.” The woman paused. She looked so familiar. “Hit the picnic table.” She touched her forehead.
Bessie’s fingers found the bump.
“Hungry?” The woman pointed to a small bowl with something brown in it. “Chocolate pudding,” she said.
Bessie’s stomach lurched.
Now a thin woman with a pointed chin swam up to the bed. “I’m Dr. Jantzen,” the witch said, scowling at a clipboard. “And you are?”
“Dr. Madison,” Bessie said.
“No, I’m the doctor.”
“So is she,” the woman who looked familiar said. “With a PhD.”
The doctor wrote something down. “Now then, may I ask you some questions?”
Such a chatterbox.
The doctor frowned at Bessie. “Do you know where you are?”
Impertinent, Bessie thought.
“Where are you?”
The doctor was impatient. Not the patient. “Hospital?” Bessie said.
“Yes. But where is the hospital located? What city are we in? What state?”
Too many words, all at once, from a wicked witch.
“She doesn’t live here,” the other woman said. “She’s visiting.”
The pop quiz continued. “What day is it?”
Day. Daytime. Bessie looked toward the window. Yes, indeedy. The sky was blue.
The doctor moved her pencil. “Do you know the year?”
Bessie closed her eyes.
“Or what time of year? Summer? Winter?”
Bessie wanted to stick out her tongue, the way her daughter had done as a little girl. Instead, she licked her lips. Maybe the witch doctor would notice how thirsty she was and bring her something good to drink.
“One last question.” The doctor stopped talking, and Bessie opened her eyes. “Who’s holding your hand?”
And Bessie knew the answer. She did! “That’s my Gail.”
Gail’s eyes filled with tears. “You’re back!”
“She’s getting there,” the doctor said. “It may take a while. I’m more worried about the concussion than the mini-stroke.”
Cussing Minnie.
Pointed Chin made another mark with her pencil, then slunk out of the room.
“Thirsty,” Bessie said.
Gail filled the glass with fresh water. “This is all my fault, Mother. I’m so, so sorry.”
Bessie opened and close
d her hand, fingers meeting thumb.
“Speaking too fast?” Gail asked.
Bessie nodded. She pointed to her forehead. “When?”
“Two days ago. Daddy’s been here. At night. He’s home now. Sleeping.”
“In Hartford?” Bessie said.
“My daddy,” Gail said. “You’re in Baltimore.”
“Charles?” Bessie said.
“Yes!”
A nurse had come into the room. “Mother and daughter,” she said. “I can always tell.” She approached the bed. “Okay if I pull out your tubes, Miz Madison? Doctor said to.”
Before Bessie could object, a tube was removed from her arm and another one from between her legs. The nurse then adjusted the bed so that Bessie was sitting straight up.
“Can you do this?” The nurse wiggled her fingers.
Bessie raised her hand, moved her fingers.
“Other hand? Wonderful! Now, bend your knees.”
Bessie loosened the sheet, lifted one leg, then the other.
“Close enough. Now, Miz Madison, let’s swing your feet around.”
The nurse’s voice was so caring, her touch so kind, that Bessie was willing to do whatever she asked.
“Wonderful. Look at you!” The nurse put her arm around Bessie’s waist. “Let’s stand up.”
Bessie did this, too. “Dizzy,” she said, and she sat back down.
“’Course you are. Haven’t even touched your lunch.”
Gently, the nurse lifted Bessie’s legs back onto the bed. “Have a bite to eat. I’ll be back.”
“Her food’s cold,” Gail said.
“S’posed to be.” And the nurse glided out of the room.
“More coffee?” Gail asked.
“Hot?” Bessie managed.
“Hot coffee? Coming right up.”
Gail left the room, and Bessie panicked. What if the wicked witch came back?
Finally Gail returned, with a cup of coffee in one hand and a newspaper in the other. She set the cup down and pointed to the front page, but Bessie couldn’t read it, even when she squinted.
“Your glasses. I’ll look for them.” Gail was still pointing. “June seventeenth, nineteen eighty-five. You can tell that doctor. Monday. Baltimore. Summer.”
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