The Myth of Perpetual Summer

by Susan Crandall

  “Today?” Daddy’s voice was sharp, and I braced myself for a fight. Please, please not today.

  “This is important, Drayton.”

  Daddy’s ears turned red, but he let her off at the curb. And I finally let out the breath I was holding.

  When we pulled into his faculty parking spot, Granny James was already standing there, dressed in her funerals-and-weddings clothes, waiting under her big black umbrella.

  She waved a gloved hand at the weather. “So much for the great myth of perpetual summer.”

  According to Granny, Northerners have a lot of misunderstandings about the South. Like how folks shivering up there in Vermont and Minnesota think we’re picnicking in warmth and sunshine all winter long—perpetual summer. She takes a great deal of pleasure in setting Northerners straight whenever she gets the opportunity, which mostly presents itself with Margo.

  “You all look quite elegant. If only your grandfather were here to see this day.” Even though Granddad died in a hunting accident when Daddy was ten, Gran keeps him alive with her stories. “James Hall,” she said it like it held some kind of magic. “A family tradition. And you’ll be next.” She patted Griff on the shoulder.

  “I’m going to be a newspaper man,” Griff said. “Like Clark Kent. In New York or Chicago. I’ll write about things that are happening now, not stuff from a hundred years ago.”

  “Up north? Gracious, Griffin!” After shaking her head, she said, “When your father was your age he wanted to fly airplanes, the next week it was to sail around the world, then it was to become an African safari guide . . .” She waved her hand to indicate the list went on and on. “But you’ll see, just as he did, tradition, that’s what’s important to a family.”

  “If I was a boy, I’d teach history at Wickham.” I was sorry I said it even before I took another breath. I don’t even like history.

  “Oh, Tallulah, you’ll support the James family tradition in other ways, ones more suitable to a young lady.” Then, as if unsuitability brought her to mind, she asked, “And where is Margo?”

  Daddy took Granny by the elbow, and we all started walking. “She’ll be right along.”

  “Drayton! Can’t she just—”

  “It’s fine, Momma. She’ll be here.” He didn’t sound very convincing.

  Griff and I hung back. I said, “I’m so mad at Margo for ruining Daddy’s big day with a meeting.”

  Griff kept our umbrella pointed into the wind as he shrugged. “What did you expect?”

  I guess he’s given up. But I haven’t. Someday the French will get out of Algeria and Margo can stop protesting and just be our momma again.

  As we waited to be called up to the stage, Griff said, “I wonder when Dad decided he wanted to be a history professor and work the orchard?”

  I shrugged. “Does it matter?”

  “What if it happens to me? I want to live in a city. Do something exciting!”

  “Yeah.” I laughed and nudged his arm. “Be Superman.”

  “Clark Kent! Superman’s not a real person. I’m not stupid.”

  Clark Kent isn’t real, either, but I suppose there are people who do his job, so I stayed quiet.

  A few seconds later he said, “I just don’t want to be like Dad.”

  “Why not?” Daddy is as close to perfect as a person can get.

  “I think he wishes he was somewhere else.”

  “Maybe when he was a kid. Not now.”

  “Oh yeah? Just the other day when he and Margo were fighting, he said that her life wasn’t the only one that got ruined. He gave up what he wanted, too.”

  Truth be, Daddy and Margo can have some real window rattlers. “That’s silly. He has all the James family traditions. He has us. Maybe gave up a motorcycle or something.” There never seems to be enough money, so that made sense.

  “Now you’re being stupid.”

  “Griffin!” Granny hissed in a rough whisper and pointed toward the stage steps. “Go fetch Dharma.”

  Griff shoved the umbrella into my hand and went to pull Dharma off the platform steps before she reached the top.

  She kicked and squirmed as he brought her back, knocking loose the bows and braids I spent a half hour on this morning. “I want to tap dance!”

  She’s been taking lessons—Granny’s idea, to “give her fondness for drama a place to vent.” Now Dharma is crazy for it, clattering around all day long on the hardwood, demanding we watch her “shows,” driving us all out of our minds.

  Griff and Gran got busy shutting down Dharma’s hissy fit. Granny said, “Tallulah, there’s a comb in my pocketbook.” She held out an arm, and I took it off her elbow.

  The pocketbook is one she saves for the best occasions. It’s not heavy like her everyday purse, because she only puts the bare necessities in it just before she leaves the house. The wind tugged at the umbrella, so I set the pocketbook on the step so I could flip the clasp one-handed.

  There was a folded hanky on top. As I lifted it, something fell out and clattered against the wooden riser. A gold necklace with a large locket. I know all of Gran’s jewelry, she likes to tell me the stories that go with each piece—and this one looks old and full of stories. But I’ve never seen it.

  “Tallulah!” She let go of Dharma, and snatched the locket off the step. “I said I wanted a comb!”

  “Where did that come from?” I asked.

  “Just do as I say and hand me that comb.” She slid the necklace into her coat pocket.

  I know how to read the atmosphere, as Daddy says. It’s an important skill when you live in a town where everybody thinks your mother is from another planet. So I see right quick Granny’s not going to be telling me stories about that necklace.

  Margo finally shows up as the dean finishes his speech, the eyes of everyone listening to the dean shift to her, and I am so embarrassed I want to sink into the stage. But Daddy looks so happy when she takes his hand that I find some forgiveness.

  Just before we’re all frozen to death, Daddy goes to the podium. He hands his umbrella to Margo, then takes off his hat before he speaks. Sleet gathers like salt in the sharp part of his dark Brylcreemed hair. Even with the dressing, I see his cowlick is trying to poke up.

  As I look beyond the small crowd, I see Mr. Stokes and Maisie off at the edge of the quad, holding hands and dressed in their Sunday best. It’s a little bit of a shock to see their dark faces on campus, but Mr. Stokes and Granny James go way back to when they were both children at Hawthorn House. And me and Maisie are best friends, even though we don’t see each other much except in the summer. I take my hand out of my muff and give her a secret wave down at my side. Maisie smiles, so I know she sees it.

  Dad only says about three sentences, then the dean shakes his hand. And that’s that. LaFollet Hall is now James Hall. A big banner is pulled to cover the limestone engraving over the front doors.

  The newspaperman calls, “Dr. James, can we get a shot of the family?”

  Dharma jumps right up there; she loves having her picture taken. I nudge Walden to get him to move forward and stand beside her. Griff and I stand right behind the twins, and Granny takes her place between us and Daddy.

  The newspaperman looks up from his viewfinder. “Where’s young Mrs. James?”

  I feel Granny stiffen. She hates it when people call Margo “young Mrs. James.”

  When I turn, Margo’s nowhere to be seen. “She had to get out of the weather,” I say quickly. “She’s taking a cold.” Some folks don’t understand the importance of getting France out of Algeria.

  Dad puts his hand on the shoulder of my wool coat and squeezes a little. I’m not sure if it’s a warning that I’m in trouble for fibbing, or a thank-you for making a good excuse.

  We all smile big, fake picture-taking smiles for the newspaper. I pull my hand out into the cold and take Granny’s. Even through her gloves I can feel her warmth, or maybe I’m just imagining it because I always feel warm when she touches me.

 
She gives my hand a squeeze, and I’m almost glad Margo and her beatnik clothes aren’t here.

  * * *

  When we get home—without Margo—Daddy stands on the blue-and-white-checkerboard asbestos tile in the kitchen with his coat on, like he can’t figure out what to do. He’s deflated and low, the happy leaked out of him when Margo disappeared.

  “I’m so proud of you, Daddy,” I say. “You gave a fine speech.”

  He doesn’t look at me when he says, “Thanks, kiddo.”

  I look at Griff, raising my eyebrows and giving him a head jerk to join in, but he just shrugs and goes to his room. Griff always backs me up, even when he thinks I’m wrong . . . unless it has anything to do with Margo.

  Well, somebody needs to make Daddy feel better. “Gran’s right. Margo was disrespectful. She should be ashamed!”

  Daddy’s gaze flashes my way and his shoulders snap straight. “You will not speak of your mother that way. You get to your room and think about all the good, important things she does.”

  His hateful tone stuns me. I stand there, unable to move.

  “You heard me. Go!”

  Dharma comes into the room, all sweetness and sunshine. She has some sort of radar that lets her know two things: if one of us other kids is in trouble, and if one of us is getting too much attention. She slips right up against Daddy and wraps an arm around his leg. His hand comes to rest on the top of her head.

  I try to explain. “But, Daddy—”

  “You should be ashamed! I want a list by tomorrow morning of the things your mother does to make your world a better place.”

  I heard him and Margo fighting the other night, and he said she was neglecting the family and needed to stay home more. Now he’s acting like she’s perfect and I’m bad.

  Dharma looks up at him. “I love Margo.”

  My heart slams against my ribs. I run to my room, tears stinging my eyes. I know better. Talking about Margo always makes Daddy forget all his own rules about logical debates and presentation of facts. He loves her more than anybody, even us kids.

  I throw myself on my bed and bury my face in my pillow. The fact is, Margo was selfish, no matter what Daddy says.

  I lie there with my notebook and pencil, listening to the weather beat against the house, my heart filled with disappointment. This was supposed to be a good day. A day that was going to change our family back to the way it used to be. Before Margo decided it was more important to look after Africa than it was to look after us.

  Instead of the list I’m supposed to write, my pencil begins to sketch on its own, as it often does. The lines and arcs, swirls and shading begin to take shape. Soon I see it’s a carousel. From my favorite day ever.

  I was only five, but when I close my eyes, I can still smell the hot sugar from the cotton candy wagon, hear the breathy toot of the calliope in the center of the leaping horses. The beachside amusement park was filled with colorful lights and sugary treats—and happiness.

  Momma, this was before the twins, before she was Margo, held me by the waist on a horse that leaped so high I got dizzy. Griff galloped beside me all on his own. Momma’s bright laughter cut through all other noise as she watched Daddy stand on the horse in front of us with his arms outstretched to keep balance as it rose and fell and whirled. We were a team then, us Jameses, so we all ignored the grouchy old operator when he shouted for Daddy to sit down. Finally, the man pulled the lever, the music notes dragged slow, and the circling came to a coasting stop. He made us get off, but Daddy didn’t get mad. He just laughed and took us to the next ride, then the next and the next, until the park closed and Daddy carried me on his shoulders, exhausted and sticky, to the car.

  Griff comes into my room and looks at my notebook. Then he smiles. “That was a good day.”

  As he says it, I realize just how long it’s been since our family has had a good day.

  “But there wasn’t a storm.” Griff points to the page.

  In the background, I’ve drawn dark swirling clouds and angry crashing waves. Jagged lightning streaks in the distance.

  “No, there wasn’t,” I say. “That came after.”

  * * *

  As far back as I can recollect, there were no storms in our house on Pearl River Plantation until after that trip to the amusement park. But that first one was a horrible, raging thing that rattled the windows and shook the walls.

  Griff had been acting like his shadow was creeping up on him all week, jumpy as a cat in the dog pound. He was like that: seeming to know trouble was coming before it walked through the door.

  Daddy tucked me into bed as usual, but it felt strange, because Momma wasn’t just in the other room. She was nowhere—well, she was somewhere, but not here.

  Griff and I had spent the whole sweltering day lazing in the shade and hanging our heads inside the blackberry refrigerators. It was too hot to eat lunch, so we hadn’t bothered coming up to the house. When we finally came in, hungry as bears, the sun was sinking low. The house was empty except for the dirty dishes piled in the sink and Momma’s radio playing on the kitchen counter.

  For the first time in days, Griff was still and quiet. “She’s probably gone to the store,” he said.

  “But Daddy has the car.”

  “Maybe Mrs. Buell picked her up. She’s always offering to take her.”

  “Momma said she’d rather starve than take a ride from Mrs. Buell. Momma says she’s a hippopotamus.”

  “A hypocrite, not a hippopotamus, you goof.” He ruffled my hair, like he did when he was teasing me, but his eyes weren’t laughing.

  He got busy scraping the last of the peanut butter from the jar, making us sandwiches. Then we watched Kukla, Fran and Ollie, my favorite show. By the time Daddy got home, I’d kind of forgotten Momma wasn’t there and went to bed just like always.

  A loud noise startled me awake. I sat up in bed, looking around. My room was bright from the moon.

  Something thumped in the house, and my heart beat fast and scared.

  Then Momma yelled—I didn’t understand what, but it was an awful noise. I jumped out of bed, threw open my door, and ran toward her voice.

  When I got to the living room, a book almost hit me in the head.

  Daddy had blood running down his forehead.

  Momma was yelling, shrill, angry words.

  And then Griff was there, pulling me from the room.

  Daddy yelled. Words so full of anger I couldn’t understand them.

  “Come on, Lulie!” Griff held my arm so tight it hurt, tugging me out the kitchen door and across the damp grass.

  He didn’t let go as we ran out to the orchard barn.

  “What’s happening?” My words were smothered in his pajamas as he grabbed me in a bear hug.

  “It’ll be okay.”

  I pushed him away. “Daddy was bleeding!”

  “He’s fine. Forget about it.”

  “I can’t! I can’t forget! They . . . they . . .” I started crying too hard to talk.

  He turned on the hose and held it for me to take a drink. I finally caught my breath.

  “Come on,” he said. “I want to show you something.” He took my hand, gently this time, and we left the barn and headed toward the pecan orchard. Everything looked silver in the moonlight. Silvery and cold, even though it was still daytime hot. He talked the whole way, about nice things, things we’d do before school started and I went to kindergarten—find me an arrowhead down by the river (Griff found his last fall), tie a rope onto a tree so we could swing ourselves into the swimming hole, go on a Labor Day picnic with Tommy Murray’s family (he and Griff are best friends like Maisie and me, but Tommy’s white, so they get to spend more time together). He got me thinking on so much, I was barely crying anymore.

  “Here it is,” he said as he stopped.

  We were at the corner of the orchard, the trees in lines like soldiers at our backs. He took me right to the edge, where the ground fell to the river below. I felt the cooler air, smelle
d the mud, heard the easy movement of the water.

  “Are you still scared?” he asked.

  I want to tell him I’m not, but I never lie to Griff.

  “It’s okay,” he said.

  I opened my mouth and a little hiccup came out, the leftovers from crying. “Not as scared as I was.”

  “Close your eyes and wrap it up in a tight ball.”

  “Wrap what up?”

  “The scaredness.” The silver of the moonlight shone in his eyes. “Go on now. Close your eyes.”

  “Don’t let go of my hand,” I said, afraid I’d lose my balance and tumble into the river.

  “I won’t. Swear on my arrowhead.”

  That’s his most serious promise, so I close my eyes.

  “Now wrap it up in a tight ball.”

  “Okay.”

  “Now open your eyes and throw that ball into the river.”

  I look at him.

  “Do it. It’s gonna sink under the water and get carried all the way out to the gulf. It’ll be gone forever.”

  “How do you know it’ll work?”

  “The river has magic. Indian magic. It gave me my arrowhead, didn’t it?”

  I nod.

  “Okay, then. Throw it.”

  I pulled my hand from his and hurled that ball as hard as I could.

  “Good!” He laughed a little. “Next time you can just use your mind to throw it. You don’t have to use your hands.” He ruffled my hair. “Feel anything different?”

  My heart wasn’t thudding. The knot was gone from my throat. “I . . . I do feel a little better.”

  “It’ll get better the farther the ball goes downriver.” He took my hand again. “We’ll stay in the barn tonight.” We start back through the orchard.

  As we lay side by side in the barn, just before I fell asleep, he whispered, “Just remember, when I’m not around, the river will always make everything okay.”

  3

  I’m not much for thinking on the Jameses who came before us; I’m usually too busy trying to deal with us Jameses who are here now. But in the two weeks since the building rededication, the whole James family legacy is stuck in my head. No matter what I’m doing, it buzzes around in there, landing on my arithmetic problems and interrupting my concentration when I’m studying for the spelling bee (winning is going to be my “suitable” contribution to the family legacy).