by Karen White
Piper stood and did as Lillian asked before resuming her seat on the side of the bed. “When was this taken?”
Lillian smiled, smelling again Charlie’s cologne and hearing the magic of Josie’s voice. She felt her in the room, too, knowing that if she turned her head she’d see Josie and Annabelle at the foot of the bed, just as she remembered them during those long months of waiting.
“Right before my come-out ball. It was the happiest night of my life.”
“Then why do you keep it in your drawer instead of where you can see it?”
Lillian sighed, not remembering ever feeling so tired. “Because of Annabelle. I didn’t want to see her anymore.”
Piper lowered the frame, letting it rest in her lap. “Why? Please, Lillian. Please tell me why.”
Lillian clutched at the necklace around her neck, her fingers sliding along the charms, finally settling on the key. She wrapped her hand around it, feeling the edges of the charm biting into her skin. “Maybe you don’t want to know. Did it never occur to you that you might not really want to know what some of those shadows are you see in the dark?”
Piper dislodged her hand and stood, averting her head so Lillian couldn’t see the tears pooling in her eyes. “No. Not anymore. I need to know. I need to know because . . .”
Lillian managed to sit up a little, giving strength to her voice. “Because why? Because you want to know what changed your grandmother from an intelligent, vibrant young woman into the timid shell she was when she died?” The sound of the knitting needles began again, frantically clicking against each other.
Piper’s breath stuttered. When she turned around, Lillian expected to see a shattered expression; instead she saw the Annabelle she’d known, the friend who fought until the end. Piper came close to the bed, her eyes bright with tears and confusion. “Maybe that’s part of it. But mostly . . .” She stopped, her chest rising and falling as she tried to catch her breath. “Because mostly I want to know that I’m different than her.”
The click of needles stopped abruptly, and Lillian listened as the silence was filled with another sound she couldn’t yet identify. Something low and murmuring, reminding her of a moving river, heard from a distance. “But you’re not, are you? Because if you were different, you’d still be jumping fences.”
Piper turned to her, her face rigid with anger. As if Lillian hadn’t spoken at all, Piper asked, “Why did you come to stay with Annabelle for so long? Was it because of your father’s association with the Klan? Or was there something else? And what about the baby in the news clipping? Whose baby was it, and how did he end up in the river? Is that what was in the letter Susan read?”
There was a soft knock on the door and Odella entered. Lillian closed her eyes again, relief and exhaustion washing over her. So tired. “You’re jumping ahead again, Piper. Just like Annabelle . . .” She kept her eyes closed, waiting until Piper turned away.
“Wait.” Lillian held up a finger. “The frame. I want it next to me. On the table.”
After a short hesitation, Piper did as she’d been asked. “You’re wrong, you know,” Piper said quietly as she settled the frame on the bedstand.
Lillian smiled, letting the approaching sleep begin to numb her limbs and her mind. “Then prove it.”
Piper stiffened and moved back, her presence by the bed replaced by a bustling Odella.
“Do you hear them, Piper?” Lillian tilted her head, listening to the voices who spoke with words she couldn’t understand.
“The trees?” A line formed on Piper’s forehead as she turned her head to listen. “I don’t hear anything. Maybe it’s just the wind. Or maybe your hearing is going.”
Lillian smiled at Piper’s back as the younger woman retreated, watching as she moved to the door and closed it behind her, unaware of all the ghosts now crowding the room or their silent nods of approval.
CHAPTER 21
I ran down the stairs, ignoring the protest in my knees. I’d been dutifully doing Emily’s exercises and my joints did bend more easily and with less pain. I knew now that I would probably never walk normally again, but the realization came with some relief. Now that I knew the worst of it, I could focus on making it better. Like an alcoholic continuing to drink so he doesn’t have to face the real problem, I’d relied on my limp to show the world physical proof of why I couldn’t ride anymore. And I couldn’t help but think how disappointed my grandmother would be that I had chosen to live that way.
I heard Tucker and Helen talking in the parlor, but I slipped past the doorway, unwilling to speak to anybody after my conversation with Lillian. I was unsettled, suddenly feeling the earth’s gravitational pull, wary that it might stop at any moment.
Because if you were different, you’d still be jumping fences. Lillian’s words taunted me, and I walked faster as if physical exertion might distract my thoughts. I left a note on the kitchen table telling Odella that I would return the golf cart first thing in the morning, then left out the back door.
It was full dark now, the house illuminated with spotlights, the alley of oaks towering in front of me. I paused by the sundial, feeling silly at my reluctance to continue forward. An owl hooted from a high branch of the nearest oak as I studied the sundial again, recalling the English translation. Time flies, but not memories. I wondered if my grandmother had ever paused at this exact spot and contemplated the words on the sundial as I did now, and understood how very true they were.
The cloudless night lay still over the oaks and old house and as I moved forward under the canopy of trees, I pushed on the pedal as far as it would go. I couldn’t shake the feeling of expectation, as if the trees were watching me, and waiting to see what Lillian’s words would make me do.
When I returned to the cottage I put on a pot of coffee and sat at the kitchen table, prepared to make a long night of it. I had one more page to read from my grandmother’s scrapbook, and then I was going to reread everything, making more notes and checking dates. I was determined to discover Lillian’s secrets before she had the chance to make me doubt my reasons why.
I set the coffeepot and my mug next to me and began to read.
July 7, 1939
So much has happened, and yet it feels as if no time has passed at all. I’m surrounded by people in my house, yet I’m all alone. If it weren’t for Paul Morton’s frequent visits, I’m certain that I would have lost all hope long ago.
Freddie comes sporadically, if at all, and always in the middle of the night. He’s afraid for his life, but he tries to hide it from us. He wants us all to leave, to hide until after the next election, when new laws can be enforced, and not used against those they are meant to protect. But he forgets that memories run deep in these parts, and I’m afraid neither he nor his family will ever be safe, regardless of how far they run.
He did convince Justine to go to Virginia for an extended stay with her sister. I made it seem as if my father is getting better and will be able to protect us, but I knew she wasn’t convinced. But Freddie can bargain with the sun to make it shine, and she left. I feel relieved, knowing there’s one less person I’m responsible for.
A farmhouse over in Effingham County burned two weeks ago, killing a black man, his wife, and three of their children. The official report was that a cow knocked over a lantern in the barn but Freddie knew the man, and knew he kept no cows. I rail against the injustice, and feel impotent with my situation. Freddie assures us that after we weather this storm, we’ll find peace.
Paul Morton brings us food as I hesitate to leave the house now and don’t want to draw attention to the amount of food I’m buying. He’s been up to the attic room and bided his time there with conversation and magazines, and his company was greatly appreciated. He’s written to several medical schools for their brochures and entrance applications and is having them sent to his house. For when I’m ready, he says.And I’m thankful not just for his kindness, but because he believes it’s something I can accomplish.
It won
’t be long now. I’ve been knitting quite a bit because it keeps my mind off of things. Josie jokes that I’ve made enough sweaters and blankets to fill an orphanage and we decided that whatever color we don’t need will be donated.
So we’ve been biding our time, keeping ourselves busy by worrying about Freddie, doing housework and recalling the happiest parts of our childhoods. It’s sad because we’re still young, but I feel as if we’ve been here forever, just waiting for our lives to finally begin.
I asked Paul to take a picture of the three of us in my garden—my favorite place in the world. My flowering azaleas and purple wisteria were photo-worthy, so I posed us in front of them, with Lillian standing behind us as Josie and I squatted in front.The flowers have done well despite the heat, and Lillian wore her new coat, ignoring the temperature.We all wore our angel charms and smiled for the camera, and I know it’s a photo we’ll look at when we’re older, if only to remind ourselves how far we’ve come.
For Lola, I’ve borrowed an idea from Lillian and chosen two charms.The first is a rocking chair, because it reminds me of this waiting time. And a baby carriage, of course, for obvious reasons.
I jerked my head up, staring at my grandmother’s handwriting as if it weren’t finished and the script should continue down the page. My fingers traveled downward toward the black-and-white photo of the women in the backyard, Lillian wrapped in a bulky wool coat and scarf. Pulled over each collar was a chain with an angel charm, the dim sun glinting off of each one like a conspiratorial wink.
I stared at the photo for a long time, trying to see beyond the thick coat, and drawing more than one conclusion. Despite the lateness of the hour, I stood, intending to call Tucker and Helen and tell them what I’d read.
As I reached for my cell phone, it rang. I grabbed it and flipped it open before I realized that I didn’t recognize the number.
“Hello?”
“Hello. May I speak with Piper Mills?”
I knew then, and I might have forgotten to breathe. “This is she. Is this Alicia?”
There was a brief pause. “It is. I’d like to sit down and talk with you, if you’re still interested.”
I leaned back in my chair, listening to the honeyed tones of Alicia Jones’ voice as she gave me directions to her house, smiling to myself as I realized that I might have a chance to beat Lillian at her own game.
I’d been up for hours, having returned the golf cart and done my morning exercise by walking back to the cottage. I’d called Tucker and Helen both, reading my grandmother’s last pages out loud, and telling them about Alicia’s call, and made plans to drive into Savannah with Helen.
She was waiting for me by the sundial wearing a yellow silk knit dress with a wide tapestry belt, making me feel frumpy in my cotton skirt and cotton knit pullover despite the collapsible cane she carried. It even had a yellow tip to match her outfit. It had stopped striking me as odd that the first person I’d ever ask for fashion advice was a blind woman.
“You look beautiful, Helen,” I called from the open window. “You’ll have to take me shopping sometime.”
Helen laughed as she waited for me to stop the car and help her in. “George has invited me to lunch, if that’s all right with you. He invited you, too, but said he’d understand if you were too busy to join us. He’d be happy to drive me home.”
Helen kept her face averted but I could see the blush blooming in her cheeks. “Yeah, I’ll need to get back, so if he doesn’t mind driving you, that would be fine.”
“Please don’t think that I’m rushing into anything. I’m not. I like George and it’s been a long time since anybody who isn’t related to me has paid me any attention. I like to enjoy myself, and to have a reason for wearing pretty clothes.” Helen shrugged. “I like that he’s related to Mr. Morton. He was a real friend to our grandmothers, it seems. And I think we should sit down with him and ask all of our questions. He’s bound to know a lot more than he’s told you.”
I flipped off the radio. “He’s on an extended vacation right now with his wife, but I’ve been sending e-mails on the odd chance he’ll think to check it when they’re in port. He communicated with me once through George, something mundane like where to find the circuit breakers. And then he sent me an e-mail last night answering one I’d sent to him, although it wasn’t really a response.”
“What do you mean? What did it say?”
“Perfer et obdura; dolor hic tibi proderit olim.”
“Be patient and strong; someday this pain will be useful to you.” Helen thought for a moment. “What do you think he’s trying to tell you?”
“The same thing my grandmother was trying to tell me when she left the charm for me. And I haven’t quite figured that one out yet.”
“Maybe Mr. Morton feels that you need to figure it out yourself without his help. Hearing it from someone else sort of loses its power. Kind of like Malily telling Tucker and me all these years that our parents loved us; it’s just not as effective as it would have been if they’d told us themselves.”
I reached for Helen’s hand, and felt her squeeze back, accepting that I would understand more than most the missing part of the human heart rendered by the absence of a mother and father.
“Does Lillian know where you’re going this morning?”
Helen shook her head. “Mardi and I went down to breakfast really early to get there before Malily did so I wouldn’t have to lie. But I needn’t have bothered; Odella told me that Malily wasn’t feeling well and was having a breakfast tray sent up.” Helen rested her head against the side window and for a moment I was fooled into thinking she was watching the traffic.
Helen continued. “I was relieved at first, and then I began to worry. Malily isn’t one to admit to weakness and is always at breakfast, dressed with full war paint—Tucker’s words not mine—and ready to go before any of us. I’ll just make a point to stop by when I get back, and bring the last of Annabelle’s pages for her to read if that’s all right.”
“Absolutely. And I’m going with you. We’ll finish reading her pages tonight, too. This has got to end. I can’t stand the not knowing any longer. Besides, I’ve got projects waiting for me at home for a few of my genealogy clients. I need to get back.”
Helen faced me. “I guess it’s inevitable, but I somehow can’t imagine this place without you. And the girls—it will be hard saying good-bye.”
“I’ll be back. Promise. I’ll need to check on how the girls’ riding is going, and on Captain Wentworth’s progress, of course.”
“Of course.” Helen elbowed me in the ribs but I didn’t say anything else as we continued our drive downtown.
Alicia Jones’ house was located in a part of Savannah known as the Pulaski Ward. The street itself was brick paved and tree lined with wide neutral areas between the sidewalks and the street. Centuries-old row houses, paired houses, and five-bay center-hall houses, all beautifully restored, lined each side of the street, where a number of brick walled gardens hinted at what might lie behind.
Alicia’s house was a tidy row house with a brick walkway bursting with late-summer pink crepe myrtles and boasting an historic plaque by the front door. She opened the door before I had a chance to knock, greeting us with a cautious smile and the sound of jazz music playing on a stereo inside the house.
She noticed my angel charm first, then reached up to touch her own. The wariness in her eyes lifted as she ushered us in. I made introductions before being led into a cozy living room with bright floral chintzes and framed posters lining the walls featuring jazz greats Ella Fitzgerald, Miles Davis, Cab Calloway, and a host of others I didn’t recognize. A baby grand piano dominated the corner, the closed lid covered with photo frames. Over the fireplace was a framed record album, the edges of the cover frayed from use. I read the title out loud. “Hunting Angels.” Below the title, in a large bold font were the words “Including the hit single title track and the number-one singles ‘Time Is a River’ and ‘Moving On.’”
I showed Helen to one of the sofas and then sat down next to her. She frowned. “That’s an odd name for an album. What year did it come out?”
“Nineteen forty-eight. I only know this because I spent some time on the Internet after Alicia called last night. The album came out nine years after Josie left Savannah.”
“I bet Odella has a copy. I’d love to listen to it.” Helen raised her eyebrow as we turned our attention back to Alicia, who’d reentered the room with a tea tray.
“Your house is lovely,” I said as I poured milk and sugar into a cup of tea for Helen and handed it to her. “I was admiring your piano. Are you musical, too?”
Alicia smiled. “Not like my mama, no. I can’t hardly sing a note. But I teach piano. I figured out early on that I was a better teacher than musician, so I made the best of both worlds.” She took a sip of her tea and gave Helen and me a considering look. “I’ll admit to being a bit surprised to hear from you after all these years. After my mama died, I wrote letters to both of your grandmothers, to let them know that she’d passed. She talked about them a lot in those last days—it was the cancer that got her—and I was surprised because she’d never mentioned those names before. That’s when she gave me my angel charm and told me all about Lola.” She shook her head. “I would have sworn that she’d had no past before coming to New York and singing in the Harlem Opera House because she never talked about any of that before she was dying.”