by Beth Hoffman
“Grammy, other than the nurse who took away your doughnuts, has anyone here ever treated you poorly or hurt your feelings?”
She shook her head. “All the other nurses are real nice. I don’t know what got into that one.” My grandmother’s face saddened as she looked out the window. “It’s a shame I couldn’t send your mother to school—she wanted to be a nurse so much.”
“Mama did?” I said, settling into the chair. “I never heard her mention anything about that.”
Grammy fiddled with a loose thread on her sweater. “Oh, she wouldn’t. It was a sore subject. She never really got over it. S’pose I can’t blame her.”
“What do you mean?”
“Her father promised he’d save money for her schooling. He saved some, not much, but he tried. When he got pneumonia and slipped away, I had to use every dime to keep a roof over our heads. I took in ironing and sold my bread and jams. Whenever Franny brought up nursing school, I told her I was savin’ the money. I knew it was wrong to lie, but I thought if I gave her something to look forward to, it’d help her through the hard times. When she turned sixteen, I had to sit her down and tell her the truth. There wasn’t any money for her schooling. Oh, if you could have seen her face. I broke my child’s heart.”
I reached over and took hold of my grandmother’s hand. “You did the best for her you could. She must have known that.”
“Well, I tried. But it’s a shame she was never able to go to school. When your father came back from the war, I realized she had a knack for nursing. She took real good care of him.”
“Daddy? But he wasn’t injured.”
“Not in body, but his mind was a frightful mess. Frances said he had terrible nightmares—up all hours of the night, pacing from room to room. He was always so jittery and short-tempered.”
I rested my hand on her arm. “I think maybe you’re confusing Daddy with someone else. He was never short-tempered.”
“Oh, yes, long before you were born he was, especially with loud noises. A lot of the boys who fought in the war had a hard time. Back then they called it shell shock.”
She looked out the window, and her eyes seemed to focus on a distant memory. “One Sunday I was up at the farm for a visit and Franny asked me to stay for supper. She accidentally dropped a saucepan on the floor. Oh, my word, your father about lost his mind—jumped from the table and started cussing. His eyes were as wild as a scared dog’s. It took Franny a long while to calm him down.”
“What do you mean visiting the farm? I thought you moved in with Mama and Daddy before the war.”
She shook her head. “No. I lived in my little cottage until 1948. I’ll never forget it. One day I was standing in the kitchen kneading bread when Henry came in the back door. He sat down at the table and said, ‘Belle, there’s a nice room waitin’ for you up at the farm. We’d be pleased if you’d come live with us.’”
“Sweet Daddy.”
“He surely was. I didn’t know what to say, because as much as I liked the idea, I didn’t want to interfere with their lives. So I gave it some thought and then called Frances a few days later to feel her out. We’d had our problems over the years, and I was worried it was mostly Henry’s idea. I could hardly believe it when she said it made sense.” Grammy chuckled and added, “Which for Frances was the same as sayin’ she’d like to have me. So Henry packed me up and moved me to the farm. I surely loved that old place.”
“Me, too.” I closed my eyes for a moment and then turned to my grandmother. “Joe Springer called me today. He made an offer to buy Daddy’s crop fields, and I accepted.”
She reached out and patted my knee. “Joe’s a good man. He and your Daddy go way back.”
“But I love that land so much. I can’t imagine giving it up.”
My grandmother tilted her head, her face softening in the dimming light. “Honey, I’ve lived more years than I care to count. When I look back and think about all I’ve learned, there’s one thing that always stands out.”
She fell quiet for a moment, as if sifting through her thoughts. Right when I wondered if she’d forgotten what we were talking about, she said, “Sometimes it’s not what we hold on to that shapes our lives—it’s what we’re willing to let go of.”
I fingered the hem of my skirt and thought about her words.
“What really matters are the things we carry in here,” Grammy said, tapping her gnarled fingers to her chest. “Your daddy’s land lives inside you, Teddi. It always will.”
I rested my head against the back of the chair, suddenly feeling very tired. “I’m driving to Kentucky to get things finalized. Before I go, I’ll call a few liquidation companies and see what they say. There’s so much stuff in the barn and Daddy’s workshop that I think I should just sell it all for a single lot price. I’ll probably lose quite a bit doing it that way, but I don’t want people tramping all over the farm for an estate sale. I can’t stand the thought of it.”
“You’re a smart girl.”
“Well, I’m not so sure about that. Anyway, I won’t be gone for more than four or five days.”
“Will you see Stella when you go back home?”
“No. I forgot to tell you,” I said with a laugh. “She and some friends from her church are going on a Caribbean cruise. She was so excited that she could hardly stand it.”
“Good for Stella. I imagine it’s been hard for her since your mother passed away. They were so close. I’m glad she’s gettin’ out and having some fun.”
I pushed an unruly hair away from my grandmother’s glasses and tucked it behind her ear. “I’m sorry I’ve been gone so much these past few months.”
“Don’t worry about me, honey. I’ll be fine. What day you plannin’ to go?”
“Friday after work. But I’ll come see you before I leave.”
She leaned her head back and smiled. “When you do, would you mind bringin’ me another box of doughnuts?”
Oh, how I laughed.
Eddie was so happy to see me when I arrived home that he ran in circles like his tail was on fire. After a quick game of fetch in the garden, I fed him dinner and then pulled off my clothes and wrapped up in a robe. On my way to the kitchen, I stopped and leaned against the doorway to the guest bedroom. Mama’s urn was still sitting on the night table where I’d placed it the previous autumn.
“I don’t know what to do with you, Mama. But I don’t imagine spending eternity in my guest bedroom is what you had in mind.”
I flicked the light switch and walked across the room. From the closet I removed my mother’s suitcase and the box containing her silk nightgown and set them on the bed. I opened the box and traced my fingers over the lace. Why I don’t know, but I took off my robe and slipped the gown over my head. The silk was as weightless and cool as winter’s first breath when it skimmed along my bare skin. Other than being a bit snug in the hips, the gown fit perfectly.
Glancing over my shoulder, I spoke to my mother’s urn. “This is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Why didn’t you ever wear it, Mama?”
From the finely made lace stitched on the bodice to the ribbon straps to the silk rosebuds with seed pearls sewn into their centers, the gown was exquisite. I lifted my hair, wound it into a knot, and held it on top of my head. From side to side I swayed, the silk gliding across my legs.
But when I saw my reflection in the mirror, I stopped. Opening my fingers, I released my hair, feeling its weight fall down my back like a theater curtain. I slid the straps off my shoulders, wiggled the gown over my hips, and watched it puddle at my feet.
I pulled on my robe and gave the belt a tug, and while folding the gown into its box, I whispered, “This was private, wasn’t it, Mama? I’m sorry, I had no right to put it on.”
Though I had no idea why I felt as I did, it was as real as anything I’d ever experienced. Yet when I sat on the bed a
nd opened my mother’s suitcase, my reaction was entirely different. One by one I removed each item—a yellow linen blouse, a blue cotton dress, lavender slacks—each one resembling a carefully wrapped gift. As I spread them out on the bed, a rainbow of folded clothes revealed the message my mother had left behind: Yes, Teddi. I really was planning to come to Charleston.
TWENTY-FIVE
A low-slung fog played hide-and-seek with the headlights. Every so often a barn or a silo would appear on the horizon, but little else. Eddie was asleep on a blanket in the passenger seat, his paws occasionally twitching. Driving to Kentucky in the dark of night was something I’d never done before, and I’d enjoyed it. The roads had been virtually empty and I’d made record time.
It was 6:05 on Saturday morning when I arrived at the farm. The house had taken on the look and smell of abandonment. The air was damp and musty, and a thin layer of dust had dulled the linoleum floor. Even the curtains looked bewildered.
After opening all the windows, washing the kitchen floor, and making a big pitcher of iced tea, I grabbed a broom and walked outside. While Eddie explored the backyard, I swept the porch and thought about my life, my family, and the farm. Now that Joe was buying the crop fields, I’d been toying with the idea of hanging on to the rest of the property, but no matter how I looked at it, it didn’t make much sense. The house was in need of renovation, especially the kitchen and bathroom, and though the barn was in good shape for its age, it needed work, too.
I had always taken for granted that Josh would run the farm after he graduated from high school. Often I’d watched him work Daddy’s fields, smiling to myself at how naturally he performed even the most difficult tasks and how much he enjoyed the physical demands of harvesting season. I imagined him marrying a spunky, bright-eyed girl and having a passel of giggling children and a yard filled with all sorts of pets.
Not a day passed that I didn’t think of my brother, but being at the farm spun me back in time until I felt his presence everywhere. Memories of him were both fierce and fragile. It was impossible to look beyond the barn and not hope to see him step out from the woods.
The human mind holds tightly to those things it can’t reconcile.
Off in the distance, a red-winged blackbird sent his full-throated song into the air, the sun peeked above the trees, and the grass glistened with dew.
JULY 1975
It was the year I turned twenty-one, and I had come home to spend a long weekend with my family. A cold front had begun passing through and was blessedly taking the oppressive heat with it. The evening was lovely and cool, and I decided to sleep on the back porch. From the linen closet, I pulled a stack of quilts, made myself a reasonably comfortable mattress, and settled in. While I enjoyed the fresh air and listened to the sounds of night, Josh stepped onto the porch wearing plaid pajama bottoms and a white T-shirt.
“Hey,” he said softly. “You awake?”
I patted the blanket, and he lowered himself next to me. His voice bubbled with amusement when he said, “So I guess this is your version of camping out?”
“Yeah. I wanted to soak up as much country as I could before going back to Charleston.”
“You really like it there, don’t you?”
“Yes, but not the way I love it here.”
My brother smiled, as if glad to hear my allegiance to the farm. While we listened to the soft twitters and trills of night, Josh shook my leg. “Look, you’ve got a friend.”
He pointed to a luna moth resting on the porch rail. I rose to my knees and leaned forward, moving so close I could see the fuzz of its antennae. “Lunas are so gorgeous,” I whispered. “I swear they don’t seem real.”
“Did you know they only live about seven days?”
“Really? That doesn’t seem fair. All that beauty gone in such a short period of time.”
As if hearing our words and deciding to get on with what little life was left, the moth flapped its wings and lifted into the air, evaporating into the moonlight like a shimmering green soul.
Josh rose to his feet. “Don’t be sad. Maybe one day to a luna is like ten years to us. G’night, Teddi.”
I reached out and gave the hem of his pajama bottoms a tug. “Good night, brother.”
It was just before dawn when I awoke to the sound of a dog barking off in the distance. A blue haze hung over the farm, blurring the woods into a dreamlike sculpture. As I lay waiting for the sun to rise, a light flashed across the kitchen window. I sat up and peered inside.
Josh was standing in front of the open refrigerator, his face awash in silvery white light and his hair a mess of curls. I watched him make two peanut-butter sandwiches slathered with a thick layer of jam. He folded them into a bandanna that he tucked into his knapsack along with an apple. After pouring lemonade into a metal canteen and sliding it into a loop on his utility belt, he flipped the strap of his knapsack over his shoulder.
Wanting to observe the rest of my brother’s early-morning ritual, I lay down and pretended to be asleep.
The screen door barely squeaked when he opened it. From one eye I watched Josh creep across the porch and down the steps with the stealth of a cat. He made his way across the lawn and headed toward the hay field. Then poof—he was gone.
Pushing back the blanket, I rose to my feet so I could watch him, but he wasn’t there. I scanned the field for his red shirt, yet he was simply gone. For a brief moment it felt as if I’d imagined it all, but proof of my brother’s passage was there before me in the line of footprints he’d left in the dewy grass.
Blocking that memory as best as I could, I finished sweeping the porch, and set the broom aside.
I whistled for Eddie and we set off for the barn. Turning the dial, I snapped open the combination lock and hooked it through a belt loop of my jeans. After flipping the door latch, I wrapped both hands around the handle and gave the door a yank. The steel rollers let out a rusty squeal as the door reluctantly slid open.
Entering the barn was like stepping into a sepia-tint photograph of the past. Daddy’s old tractor was parked off to the side, its front tires gone flat. Draped over the steering wheel was a raggedy blue bath towel, and on the seat lay an old pair of his leather work gloves. I wandered deeper into the barn and stopped by the ladder to the hayloft. I hadn’t been up there in years. The ladder groaned beneath my weight as if awakened from a deep sleep. Startled by my noisemaking, a pair of swallows swirled high into the rafters and vanished through a hole in the roof.
After opening both the front and back loading doors to let in some light, I walked around the loft. It was a beautifully built, cavernous space with hand-hewn beams that towered over my head. Everything about the barn was thick and sturdy and spoke of a time when craftsmen skimped on nothing.
Had it not been for the stream of sunlight pushing through that hole in the roof, I never would have noticed. But there was a faint outline of something on one of the lowest cross timbers. Thinking it might be a raised split in the wood, I stood back and tried to make out if that’s what it was. But I couldn’t. I dragged three moldy bales of hay across the floor, stacked one on top of the other two, and climbed up.
Still I couldn’t see it.
Rising onto my toes, I stretched my arm as far as I could and ran my fingertips along the edge of the timber. Just as I touched something that felt like a stick or perhaps an old dowel, the hay bales wobbled and began breaking apart. I jumped up and grabbed the object, then fell to the floor as it dropped from my hand.
I sat in a swirl of hay dust, stunned at what lay in front of me. Pushing myself up onto my knees, I grabbed it from the floor, my heart beating a series of wild thumps as I descended the ladder. The moment my feet touched the lowest rung, Eddie barked and I heard someone call my name.
From the open barn door, I saw a white pickup parked in the driveway with the words WOODARD TUCKER LIQUIDATIONS painted on the driver’s
-side door. Standing on the porch was a stoop-shouldered older gentleman wearing a Stetson-style hat. Next to him was a young man.
My words sounded more like a scream when I called out, “I’ll be right there!”
I was so panicked that I couldn’t think straight. What should I do with this? My hands trembled as I yanked the old towel from the tractor. After taking a moment to collect myself, I stepped from the shadows of the barn and walked across the lawn with Eddie trotting at my heels. I tried to appear calm with the towel held firmly in my left hand. I imagined it looked odd, like a flag made of terry cloth. But what was I to do?
“Thank you for coming, Mr. Tucker. I’m Teddi Overman.”
He tipped the brim of his hat. “Pleased to meet you. This is my grandson, Gabe.”
Tall and lean, with sandy brown hair and clear blue eyes. I guessed him to be in his mid-twenties.
“Where would you like to start?” I asked as the edges of the towel began to unwrap.
“Well, I’d like to take a look in the barn. You said everything goes, is that right?”
“Everything but the tractor and lawn mower. And there’s a workshop on the side of the barn. It’s filled with lots of tools. The barn’s open. I’ll get the key and unlock the workshop in a minute.”
When they turned toward the barn, I all but raced up the porch steps and into the house. After gulping a glass of water, I took the towel and went upstairs.
Josh’s bedroom door was closed. It was always closed. I rested my hand on the knob for a moment and thought about how many times I’d walked into this room to see my brother sitting on his bed reading a wilderness book or sorting through his rock collection, how many times he’d looked up and smiled at me.
For the first time in nearly ten years, I gave the doorknob a turn. The latch released, and the door slowly swung open. My brother’s bedroom looked surreal—a filmy, shapeless memory tinted with hues of blue. Grainy threads of light seeped around the edges of the closed window shade.