A Heart Divided

by Cherie Bennett

  “Let’s just drop it,” Jack suggested.

  But I wouldn’t. I couldn’t. Not with his best friend sneering at me like that. “Maybe you didn’t get the memo, Chaz,” I told him. “The war is over. Your side lost. Deal with it.”

  His cold eyes held mine. “Jackson Redford ain’t turning on his own. I don’t care how hot your little tail is.”

  Jack yanked Chaz to his feet. “Don’t you ever talk to her like that.”

  “Why, the truth hurt?” Chaz taunted.

  Terry banged his hands on the table so hard the cutlery jumped. “Dammit, will y’all just chill? You’re both acting like jackasses.”

  Jack let go of Chaz. Then he grabbed the petition and scrawled his name. At the same moment, Nikki swung through the front door.

  “Hey, Nikki!” I heard Jared shout at her. “Bring your petition over here, girl. I’ll sign. With this!” He made an obscene gesture toward his crotch, and Nikki pivoted away from him toward the ladies’ room. But she had to duck around Big Jimmy, who was coming on the run from the kitchen, smacking the flat end of a meat cleaver against his uninjured hand.

  “Dammit, Jared Boose! That kinda talk ain’t welcome in my establishment!”

  “Aw, I’m just funnin’, Big Jimmy,” Jared said. Then he caught Chaz’s eye and flashed him a cocky thumbs-up.

  Disgusted, Jack pushed back from the table. “Let’s get out of here,” he told me.

  “Come on, Jack,” Chaz protested. “I’m nothing like that low-life cretin Boose. You know that.” He offered Jack his hand—a clear peace offering.

  Jack hesitated, then shook with Chaz. “Yeah, man. I know.”

  “We’re cool?” Chaz asked him.

  “Yeah.”

  Chaz grinned and smacked his left hand on top of their handshake. “You can’t cut me loose that easy, Redford. And I always got your back, man. Always.”

  12

  but except for Terry and Tisha, they continued to be cold to me. The fact that I’d helped Nikki get enough signatures for a vote on the flag—and that Jack’s was one of those signatures—certainly didn’t bring us any closer. Somehow, they forgave him and blamed me.

  The night Nikki turned in our signatures there was a big celebration at her church. My whole family came, but Jack didn’t. I told myself it was okay. After all, he’d signed the petition in front of his friends. He mentored kids of all different colors who needed help. He was totally supportive of Black and White and Redford All Over; he’d even said he’d make some calls and try to get me an interview with the Klan guy. So what more could I possibly want from him?

  A voice inside my head answered: You want him to stand with you. Not just in front of his friends, but in front of everyone. You want him to choose.

  The next day, McSorley announced that the signatures were certified. After that, we waited all week for him to say when the vote on the new team name and emblem would take place. Friday morning, a memo was posted outside his office. The vote would be in four weeks, right after midterms. Some of Nikki’s friends claimed that McSorley was buying time until he could think of a way to get out of the vote. And some of Jack’s friends hoped that was exactly what would happen.

  Jack and I came to an understanding. He’d hang out with his friends when I was with Nikki or when I was doing interviews for my alleged play (alleged in that I still hadn’t actually written anything) or transcribing my notes. Then he’d come over and listen to the tapes with me. My family was always happy to see him. Jack was a parent’s dream: polite, smart, handsome, rich, same name as the town. That kind of thing.

  School was more complicated. Jack’s friends were omnipresent, and so was the tension. Also, Miss Bright was furious with both of us. Jack hadn’t auditioned for Living in Sunshine. Instead, we’d told her—even though she claimed she’d written the lead role especially with him in mind—that we both just wanted to be on the set construction crew. Somehow, that was my fault, too.

  In a late-night phone call, Lillith tried to put the whole thing in perspective. “Okay, it’s not like they’re Nazis,” she said. “Nazis are scary. These people are just pathetic, stuck in some weird Civil War time warp. You can’t blame Jack. He’s just like this guy I know who has six toes. I mean, he was born that way.”

  Typical Lillith logic. I really missed her. I told her how Jack had invited me for dinner the next night because he wanted me to meet his mother, and how his mother, Sally Redford, was to Redford what the queen of England was to… well, you get the picture. And one other thing. Jack’s house didn’t have a street address, because it didn’t need one. Everyone just knew it as Redford House.

  I stared at my reflection in the mirror above my dresser: Stretchy shirt that ended an inch above the top of low-cut jeans. Leather jacket. Primped and painted just enough to make it look as if I hadn’t, I hoped. I was nervous. I told myself it was only dinner at my boyfriend’s house, no big deal, but the Hell’s Angels popping wheelies in my stomach weren’t listening.

  Portia sat on the window seat under the eaves, living vicariously through my preparations. “Why would you wear that to dinner?”

  “Because my studded dog collar is in the laundry.” I rummaged for earrings in my jewelry box.

  “I told you, Kate. Cool girls here don’t wear jeans and belly shirts. And they definitely don’t wear them to dinner at Redford House.” She came to stand by me, twisting to check out the rear view of her new boot-cut black pants. “Does my butt look big in these?”

  “No.”

  She sprayed herself with my perfume and sniffed the air. “Dee-lish. Can I wear some next Friday night?”

  I reached for my hairbrush. “What’s next Friday night?”

  “The home game against Franklin West, silly. I’m going with Cassidy” Cassidy was her new thank-God-she-had-one best friend. “Hey, guess what? This boy likes me. His name is Barney. I know he has a dumb name, but he’s nice. He read Childhood’s End even before I did. He and this other guy Alan are going to the game, too. What should I wear so I don’t look fat?”

  We saw our mother in the mirror at the same time she appeared in the doorway. “You aren’t fat, Portia.”

  Portia folded her arms. “You weren’t supposed to hear.”

  “I gathered.” My mom took in my outfit and frowned. “You’re wearing that to Redford House?”

  “Thank you!” Portia sang out.

  I groaned. “Will everyone please give it a rest? It’s just a place where people live.”

  “So is Buckingham Palace,” Portia remarked.

  “Portia, there’s no need to make your sister nervous,” my mom said. “She’s perfectly capable of handling herself in any situation.” She turned to me. “Oh, by the way, Kate. Your father picked up some flowers for you to take with you.”

  “He did? Since when does Dad remember flowers?”

  My mother laughed. “Since his daughter got invited to dinner at Redford House.”

  Redford House was like Tara, only bigger. And behind locked gates.

  With a tasteful bouquet nestled on the seat next to me, I turned my Saturn onto Redford House’s private road. Jack’s directions had been: Follow the road to the electric gate and announce yourself over the intercom. When the gate opens, stay on the twisty driveway up to the house.

  As it turned out, I didn’t have to. Because Jack was leaning against the open gate, waiting for me. I exhaled the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. He stuck out a thumb. “Hitch a lift, lady?”

  “Depends. What are your intentions?”

  “Bad.”

  “Good. Get in.”

  It was so much easier to enter the double front doors holding his hand. We had just stepped into a majestic foyer when Jack’s mother seemed to float in from nowhere. Sally Redford was pretty, in a beige dress that fell just below the knee, real pearls, and chin-length hair sprayed into submission. Though I knew she was about the same age as my mom, she seemed older. My mother didn’t own a tasteful b
eige below-the-knee dress. Or hair spray. And Jensen Pride would sooner get a navel ring than wear pearls. Apparently, the only thing our mothers had in common was childbirth.

  Mrs. Redford took my hand in hers. “You must be Kate.”

  “I must be.” My cheeks burned as I instantly realized how snotty that must have sounded; I hadn’t meant to be. Was my hand sweating? I thrust the flowers at her and surreptitiously wiped my palms on my jeans.

  “Flowers. Lovely.” She smiled Jack’s smile and spoke with the same soft drawl. “Jackson has talked so much about you, Kate.”

  She went to get a vase, and Jack led me into a formal living room. The furniture was mahogany, substantial-looking, and very old. Probably worth a mint. Not a Barcalounger in sight. I noticed a cigarette burn on a side table and a long, coppery stain on one of the tapestry carpets.

  Jack excused himself to go help his mother. I looked around. One wall was covered with locked display cases. Some held daggers, muskets, or rifles; others contained uniforms and medals. The opposite wall featured oil paintings of men in uniform. I drifted over to read the brass plaques beneath the ornate frames. They were portraits of Jack’s ancestors. The oldest one was General Eustis Redford of the Continental Army. Born London, England, 1731; died Yorktown, Virginia, 1781. Next to him was Major General Jackson Redford. Born Charleston, South Carolina, 1819; United States Army, 1839-1849, Army of Tennessee (Redford’s Division, Cheatham’s Corps) 1861-1863; died Battle of Redford, Redford, Tennessee, 1863.

  I shuddered. If I fast-forwarded Jack twenty-five years and gave him a long beard, he’d be a dead ringer for Major General Redford.

  Mrs. Redford returned with the flowers in a crystal vase. Jack followed with a tray of cheese and crackers and a pitcher of fruit tea. “That’s our wall of service,” Mrs. Redford said as she placed the vase on a side table.

  “A lot of soldiers.” I winced inwardly at my vapid comment. Gee, Kate, I guess that’s why she called it a wall of service.

  She smiled fondly at her son. “Our family has a proud military tradition. Jack’s father was a fighter pilot. He was lost on a mission ten years ago.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said. I’d wondered how Jack’s father had died but hadn’t wanted to bring it up.

  “Mom,” Jack protested, running a hand through his hair. “I haven’t even had a chance to tell Kate about that yet.”

  “It’s nothing to hide, Jackson. I know you’re as proud of your father as I am.” She turned to me. “My son is the last of the Redford men. Until he has a son of his own one day.”

  What could I possibly say to that? I almost offered to jump Jack on the dining room table so she’d have a Redford heir.

  “My family’s story is kind of Shakespearean,” Jack said, his voice tight.

  “Please, sit.” Mrs. Redford gestured for me to have a seat on the couch. Jack joined me. His mother chose a wing chair. “I noticed you looking at the rug before, Kate,” she said, indicating the rust-colored oblong stain. “That’s where General Redford’s men laid him after he was wounded. They carried him home from the field of battle; he died right there.”

  No flipping way. That was a bloodstain? Who keeps a rug like that?

  We sipped fruit tea and she asked the usual questions about my family. Though she smiled throughout my answers, I could tell she was less than impressed with my parents’ degrees from Rutgers University and my New Jersey roots.

  “So, Kate, did your father serve?” she asked.

  “Yes, he did,” I assured her.

  “Oh really?” She eagerly awaited my elaboration.

  “Absolutely. He was a waiter in college.” I meant this as a joke—that seemed pretty obvious to me—but no one laughed. “Kidding,” I added lamely.

  Mrs. Redford smiled thinly, as if I’d just farted but she was too well-bred to point it out. Then she suggested that it might be a good time for us to eat dinner. She led us to a formal dining room, where the table was lavishly set, with a floral centerpiece that put my offering to shame.

  “We don’t eat in here every night,” Jack said, winking at me. “Just when we want to impress someone special.”

  In the dining room, too, the walls were adorned with history: the Redford family tree, the Tennessee state constitution, and the charter for the town of Redford. “The constitution and charter are original documents,” Mrs. Redford said as Jack pulled out her chair, then mine. “We’re very fortunate to have them.”

  A gray-haired African American woman in a starched uniform brought out serving dishes from the kitchen. Wilted spinach salad was followed by leg of lamb. Jack was funny and sweet, smoothing over any rough spots, doing his best to buff me into his mother’s good graces. He got her to talk about her volunteer work, a subject she loved. From how she described it, it was more than a full-time job. In addition to being chair of the Redford Historical Preservation Society and on the boards of various Nashville charities, she did many hands-on things, like helping the teenagers maintain vegetable and flower gardens behind the Peace Inn. She was also one of the founders of Redford Women United, whose mission was to help single mothers get off welfare. There, Mrs. Redford and her staff provided job training, child care, and transportation for these women in their new lives.

  Frankly, I was impressed. My mother’s volunteer work consisted of volunteering to tell me how to live my life.

  “Excuse me, Mom,” Jack cut in when Mrs. Redford finally took a breath. “I haven’t had a chance to introduce Kate to Dora.” He turned to the maid, who stood silently by the kitchen. “Dora, this is my friend Kate Pride. Kate, Dora.”

  “Nice to meet you, Miss Pride,” Dora said dutifully.

  “You too,” I said, feeling awkward.

  “Dora made dinner. She’s been with us for years. Wonderful cook,” Mrs. Redford added, smiling as the older woman put out homemade apple cobbler. “Jackson? Diana Fife told me that your school has scheduled the vote on the flag. Is that so?”

  He nodded. His mother patted her lips with her monogrammed napkin. “Interesting. Redford certainly is changing.”

  She didn’t sound at all upset. I was pleasantly surprised by her attitude. “I think it’s important for everyone to feel welcome in Redford, no matter how long their family has been here,” I offered.

  “Absolutely,” Mrs. Redford agreed.

  “The flag is so divisive,” I said. “That’s why we signed the petition.”

  Sally Redford regarded her son. “Jackson?”

  “What?” His voice was pinched.

  “I thought you said you weren’t going to sign,” she said calmly.

  “I changed my mind.”

  “Yes, that’s what I heard from Olivia Martin.”

  Jack’s eyes went cold. “If Chaz’s mom already told you, then why did you ask?”

  “I was curious as to when you’d get around to informing me that you’d signed our name.”

  “I signed my name.” Jack got up and began to clear dishes, so I stood to help him.

  “Dora will get that,” his mother objected.

  “No,” Jack said. “I’ll do it.”

  He took the dessert plates from my hands and pivoted toward the kitchen without making eye contact with me. I sat back down. Okay, I shouldn’t have opened my mouth. But I was so confused. If Jack’s mother already knew he’d signed, why hadn’t they discussed it before now? Besides, how could a woman who devoted so much of her life to helping people support a flag that represented the oppression of the ancestors of some of the very people she helped?

  I knew I should say something to his mother. But what? Clearly the battle flag was off-limits. Maybe I could try: “Who did that to your hair?” I chose “Dinner was delicious” instead.

  “I’m so glad you enjoyed it.” She tapped one elegant finger on the tablecloth. “Kate, you seem like a lovely girl…”

  There was so a “but” coming. I waited for her other pump to drop.

  “And I know that at the moment Jacks
on is infatuated with you,” she continued. “You’re a very attractive young lady. Exotic, even, from Jack’s point of view. I completely understand why he feels as he feels about you.”

  Huh. I’d certainly never been called exotic before. Maybe this wasn’t going to be so bad. I smiled at her. “Thank you,” I said.

  “Why, when I was fourteen, I was madly in love with my riding instructor from Argentina! Can you imagine?” She laughed at the silly girl she’d been.

  I felt like such an idiot, sitting there with a smile frozen on my face.

  “I would be remiss as a mother, Kate, if I didn’t warn you that there’s no future in your relationship with my son. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

  I was speechless; my jaw flapping like an airborne fish sucking wind. The doorbell chimed and Mrs. Redford excused herself to get it. Jack came back and pulled me toward him for a hug. I yanked away from him.

  He looked bewildered. “What?”

  “Your mother…” I couldn’t get the words out.

  “What did she say to you?”

  “Well, look who’s here!” Mrs. Redford sang out as she sailed back into the room. Standing with her was a lovely, slender, auburn-haired woman. Next to the woman was her lovely, slender, red-haired daughter.

  “Hey, Sara,” Jack said awkwardly.

  “Hey.” She cut her eyes at me. “Kate.” Sara Fife spit my name out like a curse, eyeing me as if I was roadkill.

  Ever the gentleman, Jack introduced me to Mrs. Fife, then added, “I didn’t know you were coming, Sara.”

  “Evidently not,” she sniffed.

  “Good to see you Mrs. Fife, Sara,” Jack said, taking my arm. “Excuse us.”

  “Good to see you, too, Jackson,” Mrs. Fife said as if I didn’t exist. “We miss seeing you. Stop by soon.”

  I mustered every bit of politeness I could. “Thank you so much for a lovely dinner, Mrs. Redford.” My oppositional subtext: Curl up and die, you witch.

  We went out to my car. It had turned chilly, but not nearly as cold as it was inside. Jack wrapped his arms around me to warm me up.