Perennials

by Julie Cantrell

  “How’s the birthday girl?” Whitman heads our way from the back door. Tall and muscular, with peppered hair, he looks like a typical desk jockey who hits the local gym each afternoon for weights. Add that to his golf course tan, and he and Bitsy still seem able to hold their own in a town of young frat boys and sorority girls. Ageless, both of them.

  When he places a gift in the pile, his cologne fires a trigger. Calvin Klein. The same fragrance Reed wore. It’s all I can do not to bolt when he leans to give me a hug. “Good to see you, Lovey.” Then a kiss for Bitsy. “Where’s the kids’ table?” he teases, full of charm.

  Mary Evelyn swats him playfully and pulls him in close for a picture. “Are you staying for the party?”

  “Of course. Which one is my seat?” He moves around the table, pretending to “oust one of the guests” to make room for the “father of the queen.”

  Mary Evelyn is laughing, chasing along, and Bitsy captures it all on her phone until Whitman claps. “Okay. Put me to work.”

  “Kitchen?” Bitsy asks. And they head off to manage the food and drinks.

  Mother and Mary Evelyn examine the gifts while I walk the grounds, eager to see Fisher’s landscape design. I stroll past sweet peas, snapdragons, and larkspur, all in bloom. Beyond the corner, rounded rows of phlox form colorful borders, and a group of lush peonies are full of buds, nearly opened. I’m making my way back to the porch when conversation leaks through an open bedroom window.

  “Where have you been, Whitman? It’s been weeks.”

  “Ridiculous how you always wanna keep tabs on everything I do.”

  “You can’t keep doing this. I didn’t even know if you were dead or alive.”

  “You’re nuts, you know that, Bitsy? Completely nuts.”

  His volume lifts, and I step behind a sycamore trunk, out of view. I’ve never been one to eavesdrop, and the guilt is hard to swallow, but I stay anyway, longing to be a part of my sister’s life.

  “Can’t you see what this is doing to your kids? Do you even care?”

  “Don’t you dare use the kids to threaten me.” His voice booms louder, angry.

  “I’m not threatening you. I’m begging you to stop this. Whatever it is, we can work it out.”

  Silence.

  “The kids need a family. A good family. That’s what we signed up for.”

  “You think I signed up for this?” he shouts.

  “What’s so wrong with this? Look at those kids. Who could ask for more?” Then after another long pause she adds, “Whitman, please. Don’t do this. Not today.”

  Chief pulls into the driveway, and I step casually from behind the tree to meet him, hoping I haven’t been busted. Together we enter through the front door, and I call out Bitsy’s name, hoping to give fair warning.

  We find her in the kitchen, where she’s putting sandwich squares on a three-tier stand. “Grab the scones?”

  I do as requested, then fill another tray with fresh grapes and berries. Whitman comes in, shakes Chief’s hand, smiles as if all is normal. The men exchange jokes as Bitsy works nervously in the corner, avoiding eye contact with Whitman and keeping focused on the tasks at hand.

  It’s all I can do not to put him in his place. But Bitsy looks to be barely holding on, and right now all that matters is we make it through the party for Mary Evelyn. When Trip comes barreling down the stairs, the three men move outside to shoot hoops. Bitsy’s shoulders drop in relief.

  As guests arrive the party flows smoothly. Mother and I give Bitsy the support she needs, and the quiet, calm event suits Mary Evelyn’s personality well. Together, we work through an entire lesson on etiquette, modeling social protocol and emphasizing the importance of respect—both for yourself and for others.

  “The napkin should be placed on one’s lap from the start.” Mother teaches the girls the proper way to use the cloth linens, adding that it’s always a nice touch for the host to offer black napkins to guests wearing dark colors to avoid getting lint on their clothes.

  Then Bitsy holds her cup of tea as an example. “One would never squeeze the lemon. The juice might squirt on clothing, the tablecloth, napkins, or another person. Yikes!”

  “And let’s not put the lemon on the lip of the cup,” I add. “Go ahead and drop the wedge into your glass. No splash. A dainty drop.”

  “The spoon should never clink against the glass,” Mother says with a smile. “Silent stir.”

  And it goes on like this throughout the afternoon. The girls are on their best behavior while also at ease laughing, talking, enjoying the fancy affair. When situations arise, we use the opportunity as a chance to teach: “If one needs to leave the table, we simply say, ‘Excuse me.’ Then place the napkin in the chair until one returns.” Bitsy handles it like a pro, and I honestly don’t know how she’s managing to stay so composed after the conversation I overheard. If I hadn’t witnessed it myself, I’d think nothing was wrong at all.

  As the tea continues, even I enjoy the etiquette refresher, having forgotten a few of these social rules myself. Finally, when it’s time to open gifts, Bitsy teaches one last lesson: “Once finished, place the napkin on the table to signal the server.”

  With this, she announces they have each passed Charm School 101, and she gifts each of the guests with a quaint silver charm, praising them for lasting the entire meal without their cell phones.

  Eager to open her gifts, Mary Evelyn asks me to fetch the boys. I find them on the front porch, where Whitman is the center of attention, swapping stories about his latest business trip to New Orleans. He imitates a street corner salesman in a degrading way, as if he’d last a day in that life.

  “Time for presents,” I say, smiling at Trip. “Mary Evelyn thought y’all might want to watch.”

  The men move with me back toward the poolside, where my niece graciously unwraps each present. When she reaches the one from her dad, he steps in for a closer look. She opens the box and pulls out a tight red dress, strapless and short, and I imagine he may have bought it from that same New Orleans street vendor he was impersonating moments ago. Mary Evelyn holds it up, blushing, and Chief shoots Mother a look.

  “She’s thirteen, not thirty,” Bitsy says with a bitter bite.

  “You can’t keep her under your control forever, Bitsy.” Then he turns to his daughter. “The world’s a big place, Mary Evelyn. You’ll see.”

  “All right.” I step in, take the dress. Put it back in the box. “One last present.” I hand her my gift and give Whitman a look that says, Back off.

  Mary Evelyn pulls an old notebook from the bag and shows her friends, confused. It’s covered in doodles, tattered and torn.

  “Oh my goodness,” Bitsy says. “Where’d you find that?”

  “I’ve always had it. Figured it was time to share the love.”

  Bitsy laughs and Mary Evelyn asks, “What is it?”

  “Your mother and I kept this going for years,” I explain. “We’d take turns. Write a letter. Hide it somewhere in the house. Wait for the other to find it and write back.”

  “Fun!” my niece says. “Trip? You wanna do that?”

  “No.” He pops a sandwich square in his mouth, unimpressed.

  “Please?”

  He shakes his head. No chance of changing his mind.

  Mary Evelyn flips through the notebook, reading some of the letters aloud, much to the entertainment of Chief and Mother. “You’re so lucky,” she says to Bitsy. “I always wanted a sister.”

  NINETEEN

  In her dressing room Mother hands me her favorite shade of lipstick. “Might want to add a dash of color.”

  “It’s not a date,” I insist, even though I’m wearing a little black dress that falls a tad low at the top and holds its hemline above the knees.

  “Sure it isn’t.” She moves a stray strand of my hair into place. “That’s why Blaire isn’t going with y’all, right?”

  “I’m sure she’s teaching a class or something.”

  Mother give
s a little wiggle of her chin, letting me know there is no point in arguing.

  “Great. That’s all I need. The whole town gossiping about Fisher and me. Especially if they’re all rooting for him to pop the question to their favorite Zumba instructor. Might as well sew a big scarlet letter to my dress right now.”

  “No one in their right mind wants those two to marry.” Mother hands me her Chanel No. 5, but I decline. “Not even Fisher, I imagine.”

  This is what finally breaks me into a smile. Mother leans behind me, standing now to see into the mirror. “You look beautiful, Lovey.” She drops a kiss on my shoulder, and I respond with a humble pat on her hand just as the doorbell rings.

  Dolly P. barks once, and Chief opens the door to welcome my nondate into the living room. From upstairs I hear them chatting about the weather, Ole Miss baseball, and the ongoing debate about the university mascot. Their conversation flows easily, with a natural shift and cadence known only to those most comfortable with one another.

  “Best not make him wait,” Mother says. “Your father’ll have him signed up for Coffee Club before you know it.”

  I laugh and make my way downstairs, determined not to look too eager. Dolly P. pounces after each of my steps, sliding down the wooden stairs with the adorably clumsy bounds only a furball can manage. The men overhear and round the corner, both watching me descend. “This feels a bit too much like prom night.”

  “Hold up. I forgot your corsage in the truck.” Fisher plays right along, helping to quell my anxiety. Then he circles back around. “See? Always have been too corny for my own good.”

  “True.” I make my way toward him while Mother and Chief suggest a few alternative dining options, just in case this new restaurant hasn’t officially opened. Then they tell us to have fun and to give Finn and Alice their best.

  A nervous energy bounces between us as Fisher leads me to the truck. He opens my door and then fumbles to move some landscape plans from the passenger seat. “Good thing I don’t want to impress you or anything.”

  “Oh, please. You impressed me the minute you agreed to create Mother’s garden. That’s no small feat.”

  As his Chevy roars to life, I realize it’s the first time I’ve seen him in anything other than jeans since I arrived. He’s quite handsome in his dark-blue chinos and fitted gray button-down. He smells good too, and while I can’t put a name to the cologne, it’s having its desired effect. I force my attention outside the window, hoping to steady my bones.

  The county’s free-roaming dogs chase our tires as we make our way down the ridgeline. Evening deer dart from the danger, disappearing into underbrush. Pulses of black-eyed Susans flash from the roadside ditches, where crimson clover recently fired off blooms. Come fall, these wildflowers will be replaced with yellow tickseed and blue-toned mistflower, a constant wave of color to soothe my soul. Reed may have stolen years from me, but he didn’t take this. He can never have this.

  With Fisher behind the wheel, we navigate the subtle rise and fall of Mississippi’s hill country. These gentle rolls will build from this point eastward until they reach the Great Smoky Mountains, where Chief used to bring us camping at least once a year. We were barely old enough to tie our shoes when he first taught us to navigate the misty trails and steal sun-ripened blueberries before the bears devoured them.

  Those peaks seemed endless, especially compared to our local high point, Thacker Mountain. It caps at just above six hundred feet and offers no bears nor blueberries nor mystical cloud-covered trails, but now that I’m home, I appreciate this landscape like never before, almost enough to forget the Sedona mesas and high-desert views.

  As we near the downtown square, memories surface and the remains of my life are exposed with each passing landmark. There, on the corner, that’s where I fell on my bike and ended up with seven stitches across my forehead, pebbles in my knee. That swimming pool is where I spent my summer days in the lifeguard chair. “Earned myself a whopping three dollars an hour to guard those waters.”

  “You always did love to swim.” Fisher turns my way for so long, he hits the shoulder of the road before correcting the wheel. I don’t admit I was ashamed to wear a swimsuit in public, and that I’ll never get over Bitsy and Blaire calling me fat in front of the other kids.

  We make that corner now, passing the library, a looming redbrick structure complete with classic white columns and a two-tiered porch. “Learned everything I ever needed to know in that building right there,” I confess. “How to share. How to return something in as good a shape as when you borrowed it. And how to appreciate a good story.”

  Fisher laughs, driving slowly uphill alongside St. Peter’s Cemetery, where tombstones document the familiar families who have called this community home for generations. “We’ve got a little extra time. What d’ya say we give it a visit?”

  He takes a right toward William Faulkner’s grave, parking street side for quick access to the famous tombstone. Its location has been marked by a sign, staked catty-corner from a Methodist church.

  Together, we walk to the grave where a few half-empty bourbon bottles have been scattered across the cement slab. Four Roses. I read the label with a sigh, an ode to good times past.

  “Don’t tell me you’re too old for the Faulkner Challenge?” He shakes one of the bottles, daring me to take a swig of the lingering liquor. I wave my hands in the air as if the entire idea is absurd, but truth is, I’d do anything to go back to those romantic date nights, kissing Fisher beneath the moon, hiding in the shadows of headstones and trees.

  As I move closer, I accidentally kick one of the bottles. It spins atop a smattering of coins before clanking against an adjacent jug. One visitor has even placed a Happy Meal toy on the headstone, right next to a rain-stained hardcover of As I Lay Dying. “Someone’s got a sense of humor.” I point to the book.

  Fisher smiles, then stares at the high-dollar townhomes across the street. In the same block lies a set of bungalows where tenants endure the summer with no air-conditioning. Between the two extremes rests the one small church and a home on the historic register. On nearly any given day we could sit right here at the feet of Faulkner’s tomb and see the rich, the poor, and everybody in between, all while listening to the clock tower chime, or the high school marching band practice, or the Ole Miss stadiums ring with cheers. Not to mention the aromatic notes wafting in from any number of eateries, some claiming the coveted James Beard Award, others serving barbecue, gumbo, or chicken-on-a-stick from a gas station counter.

  I rub my hands across the headstone and Fisher looks my way. “I hated studying Faulkner,” he admits. “All those long rants and heavy dialect. I don’t think anybody actually reads that stuff.”

  “I kind of liked it, actually. You remember Soldiers’ Pay?”

  “A little.”

  “Remember what he said about love?”

  He shrugs.

  “Said the saddest thing about love isn’t just that it doesn’t last forever, but that even the heartbreak is soon forgotten.”

  Fisher hesitates, then leans closer. “Goes to show Faulkner didn’t know a darn thing.”

  We each circle the grave, a bit nervously, until I take a seat on the rough concrete ledge. Faulkner’s marker is one of the more modest stones, with vertical columns to frame the family name. From where I sit my feet nearly brush the edge of a second grave, this one belonging to the writer’s wife.

  “I wonder what poor Estelle thinks of all the bourbon and coins. Drunk frat boys lurching over her resting place.” Towering above the grave, one of the oaks is covered by a thick mat of English ivy, and I’m betting that’s exactly how Faulkner’s wife felt most days, swallowed whole.

  Fisher sits quietly beside me, and I can no longer avoid the questions that have been racing in my head for days. “Bitsy tells me you’re dating Blaire.”

  With a sigh he leans back, putting distance between us. “Yeah. That’s true.”

  “Does she still think we’re white
trash?” I tease, but I can’t hide my disappointment. Blaire and Fisher? Not a match.

  “She’s not like that anymore. Now that she’s out of her dad’s control.”

  “Still a con?” I worry Fisher is falling into a trap. Like I did with Reed.

  “Money talks, Lovey. Always has.”

  Money. Power. Control. I’ve learned the hard way. The most dangerous monsters aren’t always the strangers in a back alley. They can be the ones we welcome through the front door.

  “How long have y’all been dating?”

  “’Bout a year now. On and off. Maybe longer. We’ve circled back around a time or two.”

  I pluck a penny from the marker and fumble it in my fingers, an easy distraction. “Bitsy says you may be getting engaged.”

  “It’s come up.” He fiddles with the grass, avoiding eye contact.

  “Is that what you want? To marry Blaire?”

  He, too, pulls a penny from the stash, gives it a flip. “Heads, yes. Tails, no.” He tries to laugh it off. Neither of us bothers to look at how it lands.

  “I’m serious, Fisher.” I turn toward him now. “Are you happy?”

  He doesn’t answer. And that is answer enough.

  “It may be out of line for me to ask you this, but . . .”

  He makes eye contact now, pressing me to finish. I steady my nerves and aim for the root of the matter. “I heard she was running around on you.”

  Fisher stands and kicks the edge of the grave with his Timberland boots. “She’s done a few things, I guess. Who hasn’t?” He shrugs, kicks again. “Everybody cheats, seems like.”

  “Do you?”

  “No.” He says this with conviction. “’Course not. Never.”

  “Then not everybody cheats.” I watch him closely, waiting for more.

  The silence sustains us, until Fisher makes another attempt to explain. “Who knows, Lovey? Maybe marriage isn’t what we thought it would be. I mean, look at Bitsy and Whitman. They seem to handle it.”

  “What do you mean, they handle it?” I try to read between the lines, and when he doesn’t answer, I ask again.