Mormama

by Kit Reed

  I’ve been to the ER a couple of times in Daytona, and I can tell you, ER trips always take forever, whether you’re bleeding from the ears or you can’t stop throwing up. They’ll all be gone for three hours at least, probably closer to four, and that’s if there are no car wrecks and drive-by shootings and nothing blows up in Jacksonville today.

  Except for Aunt Ivy, I’m on my own.

  The aunts don’t worry about Aunt Ivy because she can’t exactly leave here, even if she had someplace to go. It would take two guys with a U-Haul and a bucket truck to get her and her clunky scooter off the porch and she’s ferocious about that thing. Nobody takes her anywhere without it, and that’s final.

  I don’t worry about her either, because she’s nice. She doesn’t rant and she never yells at you, no matter what. She pretty much stays where you put her and she’s nice about that too, so when Mom shoveled the twins into the car and took off, I was like whew, thank God they’re gone. Freedom now.

  I went back to the breakfast room to see if Aunt Ivy wanted anything from the store, my cover story in case they get back sooner, and Mom asks. I am never going back to that creepy store, not with Dopey living upstairs, his teeth are green. One visit and I’m over him.

  I still have the peanut bar that he fobbed off on me, in case Aunt Ivy asks what I got for her, but she won’t. She’ll just forget. They all forget every five minutes, except, of course, Mom.

  It’s the perfect excuse. I just ran down to the corner to get Aunt Ivy this peanut bar, Mom, OK?

  All I wanted to do was get out and run like hell until I couldn’t run any more, like, after everything, I’d come back all chill. Then I could go around back and see if Dell is still mad at me and if he is, fuck him. With Mom gone, I could unleash another search engine on my ex-Dad and try out other things until they came back and I had to stop. Smart as she is, it’s not like Mom knows from search history, so why not?

  Aunt Ivy was still in the kitchen when I went inside to ask. She was trying to clean up the glass but she couldn’t do much from the chair, and she looked so glad to see me that I took the broom away from her and swept it up in a couple of seconds which is easy when you’re not stuck in a chair; I felt bad for her so I said, “I have to go out for a minute. Can I bring you anything special from the store?”

  She smiled and smiled. “No thank you, dear.”

  This made me feel so guilty that I had to insist. “Are you sure?”

  She came back with, “But there’s one thing you could do for me,” and I thought, oh, fuck. Then she smiled that shaky little smile and asked would I mind helping her and Scooter go out on the front porch, the door is so heavy that she can’t … she wouldn’t bother me with it, but my mother did ask her to keep an eye on me while she was gone, which I knew for a fact that Mom would never do, so would I mind? She looked so anxious to keep us all happy that I said OK.

  So I did, although I freaked when she gunned the motor on the downside of the front door mini-ramp and, shit! What if she was fixing to roll straight down the big old front steps and out the gate but the scooter heeled over and dumped her on her head?

  It turns out she was backing and filling to park her scooter at the far end of the porch. That was worse. What if the monster got stuck in reverse? The whole mess could roll backward down the front steps with her in it and land on top of her, and what would I do then?

  In fact, she was very, very careful. Like she does this a lot. She was also very particular about where she wanted to park. Dead center by the railing on the driveway side, she told me. For reasons. She just didn’t tell me what they were.

  Then she had me lug over one of the white wicker rockers and park it next to her so we could get to know each other, which I did. Turns out she didn’t really want to talk. She just sat there quietly, kind of like a lady in a deck chair in one of those old movies she likes so much, looking out to sea, so I did too. I looked out to sea with her for another while just to be polite, even though it was about to get dark. Finally she sort-of giggled and told me not to give her another thought, and when I didn’t take the hint she said I didn’t have to keep her company, she was fine and finally she said to me, point-blank, although I’m too fucking old for this, “Why don’t you go out and play?”

  The other two aunts, I would have snarked, “Play what?” but this is the nice one. I went, “Yes Ma’am,” and I did. I didn’t jump over the rail and run, it might hurt her feelings, but I was out of that rocker and down those steps before she finished saying, “Have fun.”

  I hung a left and headed uphill to the far corner, trying to slow down and not look like I was escaping because I felt guilty as fuck. Two suits got out of a slick black car across the street from Marvista as I pretend-strolled past. It looked official, and I went, Hmmm.

  Then I thought, no problem.

  There’s always something going on in that place. If they turn out to be feds or city detectives, that’s about like you’d expect. Plus, I’m clean. Shit comes down at Marvista all the time, but I haven’t seen or heard much since the night they took the body out. If I have to, I can play so dumb about that one crime that, witness? Forget it. He’s too stupid to testify.

  So, fine. This isn’t about me.

  I motored on past, heading up May Street to the far corner, all cool and thinking cool thoughts, and, shit!

  Maybe it is.

  Instead of marching up to Marvista like I thought, banging on the door and waiting for the owner to come, the two guys peeled off and slick as Mylar, these two suits that I thought I’d left behind, that I totally thought had nothing to do with me, were ambling down from the uphill corner with matching smiles. They were coming right at me, so smooth that I was, How did you get up here from back down there?

  This happens and even though you have nothing to hide, not even the rest of the weed Dopey planted on you Tuesday that you flushed as soon as you got shut of him, you automatically get all bent and humble, like, cracking your knuckles with this shit-eating grin. Is it something I did?

  Until the tall one flashes a newspaper photo at me. “Have you seen this man?”

  Guess not. They’re looking for Dell.

  They describe this nice guy that I thought I knew, although they call him by a different name, checking off bullet points like this is a case for America’s Most Wanted.

  I come up empty. Blink blink.

  The short one pulls out his phone and flashes a screen shot at me. Yep, it’s him.

  I’m like, hmmm. Uh-uh, sorry, nope.

  The short one widens the image. “Look a little closer, son. He may have grown a beard.”

  The tall one says, “Or dyed his hair. Son, take another look.”

  I’m nobody’s son. “Sorry, Mr. Now I have to.”

  The tall one says, “Not yet.”

  “Go. They’re waiting for me.”

  Short one says, “No they’re not.”

  Tall one says, “They went out. Now, about your friend.”

  “What friend?”

  “He’s about to come into some money. You don’t have to finger him, just take the message.”

  Tall throws in a bonus. “Tell him his father forgives him.”

  What?

  Short threatens. “Tell him it’s for his own good.”

  I feed them the line I picked up on TV: “Um, I need to see your badges?”

  The short one says, “Oh, badges. Our pay grade is a notch above badges, son.”

  “So, you’re, um.” (Shit, I know they aren’t, but I gulp and choke it out just to make them shake their heads.) “Company?”

  Guy one. “Private concern.”

  Guy two. “From the State’s Attorney’s office.”

  Which, assholes? Don’t say assholes. Don’t ask. Make this the uncomfortable silence you read about where the other person goes bla-bla-bla. Which I do until the short one goes:

  “Tell him it’s in his best interests to check in with us.”

  I’m still hung up on Stat
e’s Attorney’s office. By the time I come back with, “Which state?” they’re as good as gone and just to prove they didn’t scare me, I do two laps around the block, running close to the wall when I pass Dopey’s corner store so unless he’s hanging out the second-floor window he can’t see me, which he wasn’t. By the time I passed 553 on the first round their car was gone, so it looks like I’m home free.

  Not really. Not now. I’m so fucked up that I don’t know. Plus, it’s beginning to rain. On my second round I peel off at 553. At this point, even the stupid house looks good to me. No time for second thoughts. I’m up the steps and across the porch, banging on the front door.

  “Who’s there!” Aunt Ivy’s voice floats in at me from the far end of the porch, all thin and sad, like she’s been waiting for me all this time. It’s already so dark that I didn’t see her until she spoke. It hasn’t been that long, but still. She’s parked exactly where I left her, just a little closer to the rail.

  “It’s me.”

  She starts the motor all rmm-rmm, like that scooter gives her power, but her voice is shaky. “Why, Teddy, I’m so glad you’re back!”

  “I’m sorry.” Fuck, all alone out here in the dark, my bad.

  Me, I’d be pissed off and yelling, but I guess she’s used to these things.

  She backs and fills the scooter and comes rolling my way, all sweet and hate-to-bother-you. “Honey, will you do me a favor? Go under the doormat and find the keys, and I’ll let us both in.”

  I find the light switch and it’s not quite so bad. “There.”

  She rolls inside, all cheered up. “That’s better! Now, let’s go out in the kitchen, shall we? You can help me find us something nice to eat.”

  CHAPTER 32

  EXTRACT

  Dakin Ellis, his book

  Undated

  Mother gave me this notebook on the eve of my marriage. We never spoke of it, but I understand it now, and I keep this book for you.

  Thank you, Mother. You tried to warn me, and I’m sorry I responded the way I did. I was a grown man, intent on marrying the girl I loved, and I did love her! Long before I knew, although I had begun to doubt her, Mother, you saw Manette for what she was.

  I was young and brash, fresh from army duty patrolling the Panama Canal. With your blessing and Father’s considerable legacy to manage, I left Syracuse, New York for the raw young city of Jacksonville, Florida. I was my own man in Jacksonville, just starting out in the golden land, bound to honor Father by making his money grow. I journeyed to Charleston to visit the boatyard that first year, thinking to augment Mr. Plant’s ambitious steamship line with a new vessel and be welcomed into his corporation, although that was not to be. On that first visit I stayed with the younger Calhouns on Church Street, old friends of the family on Mother’s side, it’s just as well she didn’t live to see what’s become of me.

  Although she was not being presented, a matter that galled Little Manette and her grandmother, old Mrs. Ware, I met Manette Ware Robichaux at the St. Cecilia Society Ball. By the end of the evening, I was in love. She loved me. She did!

  She was a pretty girl, she couldn’t have weighed a hundred pounds, so delightfully young and sweet. Forgive me, I rushed into love headlong. I didn’t know she was just fifteen. If I’d guessed how long it would take to win her or what she would demand before she agreed, would I have been so eager to meet her every wish, or so willing to wait? But that night my Manette— and in my mind she was already my Manette— waltzed away from me with such a promising smile that I had no choice. She threw me a gardenia from her nosegay.

  I started out in this life strong-willed, hopeful and independent, but over the years my pretty, willful wife chewed me up and spat out a cipher. This dainty Charleston belle staked out her territory like a venal prospector, although I didn’t know it then. She filed her claim a full three years before she accepted my proposal. Little Manette Ware Robichaux married me for what she thought I was worth to her.

  The girl picked me out coolly as she would the ebony armoire for our bedroom, to be refinished and moved from room to room at will. Like the china pug she bought when she filled her private boudoir with chinoiserie, I would be rearranged according to the condition of my marriage and her rapidly changing sense of decor. She left my bed after Everett was born— to meet her precious baby’s needs, she said. After that she let me approach her on her terms, at certain times, in her fancy boudoir. And the children? Here to serve her purposes, which has always puzzled me— not her purposes, just exactly why she needed them to complete her portrait of herself: a great lady surrounded by loving children, I suppose. The cynosure of all eyes.

  Like them, I was just one more coveted object that failed to live up to her expectations, no matter where she positioned me in her cluttered, overdecorated home— if this house has ever been a home. It’s the first thing she said she must have before she would accept me.

  A suitable house built for her on the best street in the young city of Jacksonville. These were her conditions. How else could she leave historic Charleston and everything she loved for the frontier?

  Manette Ware Robichaux was spoiled.

  I thought Zeus had tapped me on the shoulder, but I was wrong. The girl settled on me because I had the means to create, furnish, maintain and enhance the great house she desired. Old Mrs. Ware set out the requirements when I asked for Manette’s hand. Her darling Little Manette deserved an appropriate setting for the great lady her granddaughter would become.

  Yes, Mother, I should have wondered why my bride lived with her grandmother in the historic Ware house, although it gave her mother great grief.

  I understand why Mrs. Robichaux is sour about it. “My child, in that woman’s house,” she said to me the first time we met, and her voice was ragged. “They think I’m not good enough.”

  How was I to know why or how Little Manette chose that frilly old flibbertigibbet instead of her plain, sensible mother, who lived several blocks away? I should have considered. I should have asked! But my sweetheart was so pretty and so charming, so intent on pleasing me, that I didn’t want to see.

  I thought she loved me, but that was never the case.

  I left my calling card at Mrs. Ware’s house the day after we met at the St. Cecilia Ball, and Mrs. Ware agreed to see me that afternoon. Fine boned, like her granddaughter, and in her narrow face, vestiges of the belle she must have been. She interviewed me so thoroughly that I couldn’t catch my breath but when I expressed my intentions, she gasped, “But she’s just a child!” The love of my life, she told me, had turned fifteen three weeks before.

  I apologized and made as if to go, but she said if I liked, I could come calling on her “sweet child” the following Sunday at four, never mind that my business in Charleston was done and I was expected back in Jacksonville for an appointment with Mr. Henry B. Plant.

  God help me, I took rooms at the Charleston Hotel and stayed on for too many Sundays after that, while my business with Mr. Plant died of neglect. Mrs. Ware sat with us on the first few Sundays, but in time she kept the maid busy dusting in the next room on these afternoons, visible through the archway that separated us, and on Sundays that followed, chaperonage became less intrusive, until Manette and I were effectively alone together. We were alone together for long enough for the child to let me know what she expected before she could consider parting with her beloved grandmother and, even harder for her to bear, leaving her beloved Charleston for life in a brand new city so lacking in culture and tradition, so …

  I promised her this house.

  Mrs. Robichaux tried to warn me, but by that time it was too late. Two years after I began the long courtship, old Mrs. Ware invited us for tea, “to meet the child’s mother,” she said in the note delivered to the rooms I kept in Charleston, so in spite of pressing business in Jacksonville, I could be there as often as I needed to court Manette for as long as it took.

  “As we will of course have to include her in the wedding party, I
must acquaint you with my daughter, Charlotte. Unfortunately, she has little of the old Ware family charm.”

  The maid came to the gate and ushered me upstairs to the expansive side porch to wait. I sat in the shade, watching the Spanish moss on the great live oak drifting in the breeze. The table was set for four; silver service, little cakes, all that. I was the first to arrive. I watched flies land and take off from the embroidered muslin cover on the platter of tea cakes until finally the maid ushered Mrs. Robichaux out onto the porch and I jumped to my feet. To my eternal shame, I disliked her on sight, but I saw her to her chair.

  As I seated her she whispered, “Mother stole that girl away from me and dressed her like a china doll. She trained Little Manette according to her expectations,” she said, and that was all she said. She tried to warn me then, but I was deaf to her. Manette had accepted my ring!

  We were married three years later at St. Michael’s Church, with a reception and four-course dinner at the Carolina Yacht Club, in one of the finest weddings Charleston has ever seen. Manette’s mother came to the wedding in black— still in mourning for her late husband, she told me, although after all the years between, most Southern widows would have moved from black to gray, perhaps even lavender, to celebrate the day.

  My wife’s house took two years to design and three years to build, and on each visit Little Manette showed me endless images of plantation houses. Then, mysteriously, she produced an architect’s rendering of the exact design. She decided exactly where and how her house would be sited— near the St. Johns River, she decided, on May Street, she decided, once I came back to her with photographs of available plots, never mind that the lime deposits in this area and the persistence of floods suggest that our beautiful new house sits on uncertain ground.

  I tried to warn her. Stroking the inside of my wrist, she said, “Build it on a high foundation like all the best plantation houses, and you’ll never have to worry about a thing.”

  I still worry, but God help me, I did.