Perennials

by Julie Cantrell

  “You must be the Sutherlands.” Our host steadies herself with a wooden cane that bears colorful messages for Grammy. With a freshly pressed church dress and orthopedic shoes, she welcomes each of us with a firm handshake. “Right nice to meet y’all. Call me Vaida.”

  Bitsy fakes a smile, drawing her arms closer to her waist. In contrast, my parents greet Vaida warmly, accepting her kind offer to “come on inside for a pour of strong coffee.” She warns we may “catch a chill” because she’s “kicked the AC down to make it work a little overtime on account of the heat.”

  As soon as we cross the weathered threshold, the disheveled exterior is replaced with an impeccably clean space inside. With each step memories begin to flood, and Mother thanks Chief at least four times before we pass the expansive foyer, her eyes drawn wide with wonder.

  Vaida encourages us to make ourselves at home, and with her guidance, we explore her tidy dwelling as a group, moving at a slow pace in order to process the past and to allow for our host’s “kinked hip.” She speaks with a clear mind, not a hint of dementia. “I’ll be one hundred come October, Lord willing.”

  She shares her family’s plans for a big celebration, and Mother and I both sing her praises.

  “I keep telling the Big Man upstairs I won’t be able to manage much longer, but he keeps on giving me another day, another day. Can’t for the life of me figure out what else he needs me to do down here.” Dark-brown age spots dance across her cheeks as she laughs. I watch, impressed, hoping I, too, live to be one hundred and that I’ll still find humor in things when I do. Reminds me of something Mother used to say: “Happy is a choice.”

  The high ceilings and sparsely furnished rooms allow for easy movement through the two-story abode. As Vaida wrestles the stairs, I keep close behind in case I need to catch her fall, but she stays steady all the way to the top. I imagine my mother as a toddler, my grandmother guarding her every step. Will Mother see a hundred years like Vaida? Will I someday be shadowing, worried she may fall and break a hip?

  In each room more memories rise. Grandpa’s snoring during a Sunday-afternoon nap, or the lilt of Grandma’s voice as she would read us a story. The savory draw of her homemade soup on the stove, or the chill of banana milk shakes and watermelon Popsicles.

  “We used to race down this hall,” I tell Vaida, running my fingers across the smooth wooden wall. “Seemed a mile long back then. I could do four cartwheels back-to-back.”

  Bitsy nods but stays quiet.

  “Ah, yes. Mine do the same.” Pointing to the countless photos on display, Vaida assigns names and stories to each of her loved ones. “Little Macey, she’s the baby. Look at all those rolls, will you now?” She squeezes her hand as if she’s pinching the infant’s thick thighs, laughing as she describes her great-great-grandchild. The love is pure, and it makes me wonder why she lives here alone if she has such a large extended family.

  “You keep this big place up all by yourself, Mrs. Vaida?”

  “All by my lonesome.” This certainly explains why the paint is chipping and why a flurry of weeds have claimed the yard. “Everybody’s so busy all the time.” She shakes her head. “Back in the day, we’d stick together. We’d make time, you know? Now they’re all spread out, this way and that, and ain’t nobody showin’ up for Sunday supper.”

  Mother and Chief signal sympathy, and my heart sinks. In contrast, Bitsy grins proudly, insinuating she’s the good daughter, the one who makes time for our parents. She hasn’t uttered a peep since we pulled into the drive. In fact, she seems so far out of her comfort zone here, she doesn’t seem to know who she is. It’s a sad truth that makes me feel a little sorry for my sister.

  We exchange a few more family stories and head toward the kitchen, where Mother lights up. “Y’all see this?” She moves to the center of the room. “This is where your father proposed to me.” She steps onto a rag rug that lines the floor. “Right here.”

  Chief grins like a schoolboy, shuffling toward her with a nervous step. The original wood planks have since been coated with linoleum, a soft spread beneath his feet. “Feels like yesterday,” he says. Then he tries to take a knee on the rug, garnering surprised reactions from all of us. As he lowers, his joints strain, so I reach out my hand to steady him, letting his warm palm press tight against my own.

  Once stable, my father cranks up the flattery, replacing my hand with Mother’s as he gazes into her eyes. “You’ve made me a very happy man, Laurel. Very happy.”

  My mother blushes, something I’ve rarely seen from our confident matriarch.

  “I couldn’t afford much of a ring back in the day, so I’m hoping this might make up for it.” Chief reaches into his pocket and pulls a small velvet box to hand. When he opens it to reveal a new ring, Mother gasps. I do too. It’s a simple setting, with four round stones lined across the platinum band. Each must weigh at least a carat. “A diamond for each of us,” Chief explains. “A reminder that we’re better together. Family First.”

  My stomach tilts with emotion, and even Bitsy rushes to get a closer view of the stones. When she offers a sincere smile, I half think she may be thawing.

  “You sure found yourself a right fine man, Mrs. Sutherland. Right fine, indeed.”

  Mother beams in agreement, and Chief takes it up a notch by popping the question. “Laurel Sutherland, the best thing I ever did was ask you to marry me. And I’d do it all over again. Would you?”

  “You know I would.” Mother leans low for a kiss right here in the kitchen.

  This causes Mrs. Vaida to cheer, and Bitsy and I are a mess. As Chief slides the ring onto Mother’s finger, her tears shift to laughter. “I never would have guessed you’d have something like this up your sleeve.”

  “Aw, shucks.” Chief shakes it off. “I’ve got a lot more comin’ your way. Just wait and see.” Then Bitsy helps me pull Chief to his feet, and he asks Vaida if he can show Mother what he really called about.

  “Surely,” she says. “Just wish I had a cake ready to celebrate the special occasion.”

  Of course, we tell her there’s no need for anything more than this, and we all make our way back to the porch where I greet a soft gray kitten with a silly, “Hey, meow.”

  Bitsy rolls her eyes, so I pick up the fluffy feline. I move her paws like a puppet, as if the cat is speaking to my sister in a comical tone. “Meow you doin’, Bitsy?”

  Mother plays along, in spite of Bitsy’s reluctance. “We’re purrfect. Thank mew for asking.”

  I crack. And Vaida does too. But the battered porch has caused a shift again, and Bitsy reverts back to her stone-cold smile, refusing to take part in such a lowly scene. I resist the urge to tell her she’s “gotta be kitten me.”

  In the meantime Chief has turned his attention to the boisterous row of hydrangeas bordering the porch. I step down the broad front steps to examine the plants from ground level, their summer leaves already back to life, their blooms barely peeking out in search of sun.

  “The first time you brought me to meet your parents, your mother served coffee cake right here on the porch.”

  Mother pulls her hands over her heart and smiles.

  “I was a nervous wreck that day, so I clipped a hydrangea for you, trying to impress.”

  “It worked.” She shrugs toward Vaida, and I pet the kitten, grateful for my parents, for my family, for all of this.

  “Not at the time, it didn’t,” Chief counters. “You told me it was bad luck. Remember? Said they’d been planted too near the front door and that you couldn’t accept them, not from me.”

  “Oh my goodness. I did say that, didn’t I?” Mother’s memory is firing. “That’s because people used to say it would make a daughter unmarriable to plant them near the house. I was certain I’d end up an old spinster, no matter how many times Mama insisted she had broken the spell.” She touches the limber leaves. “I was worried you were marking me. That we’d be jinxed from the start.”

  “That’s not what I was taugh
t,” Vaida interjects. “I always say, if you plant a hydrangea, you’re sure to find a love that lasts. Loyalty. That’s what they mean to me.”

  “See there? I knew what I was doing all along.” Chief’s lips stretch into a broad smile, his most attractive feature despite the dental bridge. Mom offers him a peck on the cheek and he accepts, giving Vaida a wink of appreciation.

  “Well, here’s the real surprise. We’re taking some clippings,” Chief says. “Right here from your mother’s hydrangeas.”

  Mother clasps her hands with glee, a much grander reaction than the one she expressed when he gave her the ring.

  Chief is loving this. “Thought it might be nice to plant her flowers back at home. If we’re lucky, maybe the girls will take care of them long after we’re dead and gone.”

  “Don’t talk like that,” I say. And I mean it.

  Mother’s eyes mist again. “Jim, this is the most thoughtful gift anyone has ever given me. Honestly, how in the world did you come up with all this?”

  “I’m just good like that.” He pulls a small pair of pruning shears from his baggy pocket, then spins it around his finger like a cowboy’s pistol.

  “A ring? Now clippers? What else you got hidin’ in those pockets, dear?”

  Chief pulses his eyebrows suggestively, and Mother howls with laughter.

  The kitten watches from the porch as we find the perfect stems to trim. Mother prompts us to aim for those without buds, measuring each about four to five inches in length before snapping them a couple of thumb-lengths below the lowest leaf node.

  “Run out to the car and grab the pots, will you, Lovey?”

  I do as my father asks, finding his secret stash in the back where he’s filled a cardboard box with plastic planters. Each one has been stocked with good soil, ready for the transplants, and by the time I return, Mother is eager and waiting. She trims the base leaves, then snips half the leaf from the top of each stem. Her shiny new diamonds draw my eyes as she passes the cuttings my way. I plant each of the rootless stalks into moist soil, enjoying the feel of earth against my skin. Together, we fill ten planters, while Bitsy stands stiff-necked on the porch, keeping us beneath her on the ground below.

  Vaida seems pleased, singing praises while we work. “You really have found yourself the last true gentleman, Mrs. Sutherland.”

  Mother places the final container in the box and turns to me. “Oh, I’m sure there’s still one more out there. Lovey just hasn’t found him yet.”

  ELEVEN

  One block over, we survey the park where we used to play. Back then, the swings would have been filled with children, each of us avoiding the sizzling heat of the metal slide. Today, however, the swings hang broken from rusty chains, and no one plays.

  While the monkey bars stand empty, three teens have congregated near an ancient magnolia, swapping cigarettes and stories beneath the fair-bottomed leaves. Most of the flowers have already burst open, stretching their wings after a spring spent bound by tight cocoons. Now the blossoms are as big as the basketball shifting round and round among the young men. “What goes around comes around.” That’s what Brynn says. But truth be told, I’ve never wanted revenge for all Reed did to me. And I have no desire to hurt Bitsy. I only want the people I love to stop hurting me.

  Just around the corner, Chief offers snow cones. Near the stand, a patch of wild orange calendula and a few heady sprays of yarrow grow in an unruly sprawl. Their bright colors seal the deal, and I surrender. “Why not?”

  Chief pulls the car to a stop, remembering my favorite flavor, Wild Cherry Larry. Surprisingly, Bitsy claims her own Gilbert Grape, Mother opts for Spear-a-Mindy, and Chief goes for Lucky Duck Rainbow—a colorful concoction of blueberry, banana, and strawberry for the young at heart.

  Once served, we settle on the wobbly benches, fighting bees for our sugary treats. For the time being, Bitsy and I remain at peace while our parents spoil us with an endless shower of time and attention. The four of us are laughing, eating snow cones, sitting in the shade of an elm on a whole-year-long kind of day. Once again, all seems right with the world.

  “It’s been, gosh, twenty years since I’ve had one of these.” My confession seems a shock to the rest of my family.

  “I bring the kids all the time in Oxford,” Bitsy says. “We go the first day they open each summer. Tradition.” She shows me more pictures from her cell phone—the children holding their seasonal treats, their lips tinted to match their favorite flavors.

  “Sure do miss them.” I pull the phone for a closer look. I took such pride in being Aunt Lovey, and I wish more than anything that Bitsy would say they miss me too. Instead, an awkward silence follows, so I concentrate on numbing the pain of my brain freeze, tapping the roof of my mouth with my tongue—a trick I learned as a kid.

  “It’s good you’re in town for Mary Evelyn’s birthday party,” Mother says.

  My breath catches. “Party?”

  “Oh, it’s just a small thing for a few of her friends.” Bitsy waves it off. “Little tea in the garden. Etiquette lessons. No big deal.”

  “I’d love to go.” I take the risk, praying it works.

  “Of course you’ll go,” Chief says.

  No one counters, and Mother changes subjects before Bitsy reacts. “You know, Lovey, I never did understand why you split with Fisher. You were so good together.”

  I glance at my sister. “Bad timing, I suppose.”

  “I don’t think he’s ever gotten over you. Still swings by the house. Always says he’s looking for work, but we both think otherwise.”

  “True,” Chief says, without emotion.

  “Why didn’t y’all ever mention that to me?”

  Bitsy takes her jab. “Nobody figured you’d care.”

  “Of course I care.”

  “You already made your choice, Lovey. No point in trying to change it.”

  I try to picture Fisher with a girl like Blaire. It doesn’t fit. “What’s she like now? Blaire?”

  “Gorgeous, as always.” Bitsy’s energy peaks. “Teaches my Barre class. Zumba and Spin too, but I don’t always make it to those.”

  I no longer enjoy the snow cone, imagining my weight creeping back to unwanted digits while Fisher walks the aisle with a perfectly fit Zumba instructor. I poke the ice with my spoon-tipped straw, the sound slicing away the image. “Are they engaged?”

  Chief and Mother pay close attention, and I can almost feel them holding their collective breath.

  “Any day now,” Bitsy says. “Aren’t you happy for him? After all these years, he’s finally found someone. And not just anyone . . . Blaire!”

  Thank goodness my phone rescues me with a ring. “It’s work,” I explain, relieved to answer the call from Phoenix.

  I barely finish saying hello when Brynn interrupts. “Did you get my e-mails?” She sounds panicked.

  “No, why? What’s wrong?” I turn my back to gain a semblance of privacy.

  “Jansana called a meeting. It starts in an hour. I can’t run solo with this.” Brynn’s speaking fast, loud.

  “It’ll be fine. I promise,” I respond with a slow pace, hoping to calm her. “They probably just have a few questions.”

  “But what if they’re pulling out?”

  “This late in the game? Not a chance.”

  “You don’t know that. Anything can happen.”

  I step away from the table and talk her down from the ledge. “Now, listen, Brynn. You know this campaign as well as I do.”

  “No, Eva. I don’t. I’ve always been your sidekick. First your intern. Then your assistant. Now your teammate. Even your best friend. But I’ve always followed your lead. And maybe I like it that way. I don’t want to be responsible if this falls through.”

  “It won’t fall through, Brynn. But if it makes you feel better, I’ll join the meeting.”

  “Yes! Please, yes!” Her relief is palpable.

  Chief and Mother eye me curiously, if not with concern.

&
nbsp; “I’m on a road trip with my family right now, but I’ll find a way to call in. No problem.” She thanks me repeatedly. “But, Brynn, all you need to do is be yourself. You know this stuff. I’ve sent you all the data they could possibly want. You helped me create the concept start to finish. And you excel at making people feel comfortable. I have full confidence you could do this without me.”

  “I haven’t told The Dragon.” Brynn sounds a little less anxious now, but her pitch is still strained. “Think I need to clue her in? Send her an invite?”

  “Why bother her with a bunch of what-ifs? She’ll shred your confidence, and that’s the last thing you need right now. It’s better to steer clear until you have more to tell her. That’s what I would do.”

  “So . . . you’re sure. You’ll handle the meeting?”

  “Of course. And, Brynn? One more thing.” She waits for it. “Power stance.” Finally, laughter and a long exhale.

  As we disconnect, I’m hit with a blast of questions from Mother and Chief. I give them only enough information to quiet them, hoping not to make them feel guilty about taking me away from work. Bitsy seems unimpressed, even when I describe the big campaign.

  “You sound like Whitman,” she says, slow and monotone. “Work, work, work.”

  I don’t react. Instead, I reply by asking about her husband, Whitman Strayer II, a med-school dropout turned venture capitalist who now helps Oxford’s elite decide what to do with all their money.

  “He’s fine.” She adds nothing more.

  “Still traveling a lot? Last I heard he was partnering with investors in Atlanta? Birmingham? Dallas? Looking for start-ups.”

  “Yep. As I said, he’s fine.” She gives me a glance that warns me to back off, so I turn my attention back to the landscape, eager to drink in every gift Mississippi offers.

  Behind the picnic table, a batch of invasive kudzu has crept in from a steep ravine. With no natural balance to keep it in check, the Asian species now abuses its power, growing thick, leafy webs across everything in reach. Even the trees with the deepest roots have fallen victim to this vicious vine.