The Myth of Perpetual Summer

by Susan Crandall

  “But Elliot had been sent by his mother, and you didn’t return to that woman with a job unfinished.” She swallows hard. “It was h-horrible.”

  I’ve never heard Gran stammer.

  “Elliot was a year younger than George,” she says, her eyes distant and unfocused, “but still a little bigger. As they scuffled, George’s strength seemed almost inhuman. When they broke apart, he lunged at Elliot. Elliot dodged to the side. He didn’t plan it. It was reflex. And George . . . George just kept going, right over the railing.” She covers her eyes and bows her head. “I can see it as clear as if it were yesterday. For a moment, he almost seemed to fly.”

  “Oh, Gran.” I scoot closer on the swing, put my arm around her and hug her close.

  For a few seconds, she cries into her hands. Then she raises her face and uses the tissue to dab her nose.

  Her voice is as distant as the past when she says, “He didn’t hit the water because we were near the end of the bridge. We knew immediately his neck was broken. Even then, we didn’t give up. We rushed down. His eyes were wide-open.” Her shudder tells me she’s seeing it all play out in her head. “Elliot was wild with grief, clawing the mud and begging George to come back. He blamed himself. And I was so shocked and stricken; I couldn’t say anything to comfort him. I just sat there holding George’s hand and wailed.”

  “You were in shock, too, Gran. You couldn’t help Granddad.”

  She turns slowly and looks at me. “If I’d just spared a kind word for him at that moment. It might have made a difference; it might have eased his soul.”

  “I doubt he would have absorbed anything you said.” As those words leave my lips, I think of Dad in the locker room. Knowing what I know now, nothing I could have said would have altered his course. The truth is heartbreaking and freeing at the same time.

  “You asked me about regrets—that’s one of my biggest,” she says. “If only I could go back and reach out to Elliot, ease his pain, let him know I didn’t blame him and he wasn’t alone.”

  I think of the locket. Of George asking Gran to marry him. “Granddad was in love with you then, wasn’t he? He loved you, even when he thought you were going to marry his brother.”

  “I don’t want you to think I didn’t love him back. I did, in time. But when George was around, I couldn’t see anyone but him.

  “Elliot never believed me when I assured him that George and I would never have married. I was besotted, but he was tomcatting all around the county. I just hadn’t worked up the nerve to break it off with him. Elliot always believed he only got me because he killed his brother.”

  “How horrible for him. But you were happy, weren’t you, you and Granddad?”

  “We were as happy as two people can be with a ghost standing between them. If George had lived, I believe Elliot and I would have been truly happy.”

  “So sad for both of you.”

  “Don’t feel sad for us. We had more happiness than many married people. And we had Drayton. But there was so much that weighed us down.”

  “It was obviously an accident.”

  Gran took her tissue and blew her nose in that delicate, ladylike way I’d never been able to master. “Of course it was.” She pauses. “It’s what came after that ruined your grandfather.”

  God, how could it get worse? And then I realize. George left town. Only he didn’t. “You covered it up.”

  Her nod is slow and tired. “Your Great-Grandmother James . . . I know you think I’m too concerned with propriety, but that woman . . .” Gran’s fingers begin to shred the damp tissue. “I waited with George on the riverbank while Elliot went back to the farm for help. I was so relieved when Ezra—Mr. Stokes—came with Elliot and his father. Ezra was like a brother to me, such a comfort.

  “By the time we got back to the farm, Elliot’s mother had already created a story and a plan. We all went along—shock, I suppose. None of us were thinking clearly. And once it was done, there was no undoing it.”

  “The story that George ran off,” I say.

  “He’d been acting so erratic, so wild, it was believable.”

  “And his body?” Please say they at least buried him in the family plot. But I knew in my heart that wasn’t what happened. Someone might have seen the disturbed dirt, link it with George’s disappearance.

  “Great-Grandmother James decided Elliot and Mr. Stokes would bury George deep in the woods. They weren’t to tell any of us where.” She pauses. “There was no funeral. No place to mourn. No place to pay respects. I still can’t understand how a mother could be so callous about one child or so cruel to the other.”

  The death of a child. The same loss Gran suffered when Daddy died. “That had to be so horrible for you and for Granddad.”

  “Worse for him. I was only burdened with the secret. Elliot and Mr. Stokes had to bear the sin. But, ever the faithful son, Elliot kept his promise to his mother. He never told anyone, even me, where George was buried.”

  I swipe tears from my cheeks with my palm.

  “But I know,” she says bitterly. “George was buried right where Elliot had his accident.”

  “An accident that wasn’t an accident at all,” I say. Poor Gran, so much tragedy. So much loss. So many secrets to carry.

  “Just another lie attached to a James death. A lie of convenience that was meant to spare pain, not cause it.” She takes a deep breath and blows it out. “I suspected what Elliot was up to that day. We argued about him going. I said some things, things I later found out your father overheard. I wish I had cut my tongue out before I said any of it.”

  “The note you found on Dad’s desk the night of the bonfire—he knew Granddad killed himself—over guilt about George.”

  “And he knew I didn’t stop him.”

  “But you tried. You said you argued.”

  “But my last words to him were hateful. I told him to go ahead and put us all out of our misery.” A sob breaks loose in her throat. I hold her close and let her cry.

  Finally, she regains herself. “I was never sure exactly how much Drayton heard. More than a ten-year-old should. When I tried to talk to him, he pulled farther away. So I stopped and we went on with our lives, repeating the same lies to ourselves and everyone else.”

  I tighten my hug. “All to protect a family name that was ruined anyway.”

  “I thought in time people would forget. It’s unfair you children paid the price for us who came before. And now, Ezra is right. There is no one left to protect.”

  It seems strange to hear her call Mr. Stokes by his first name. All my life she called him Mr. Stokes and insisted we all did, too, even though most white people didn’t give a black man that kind of courtesy. The secrets and burdens they shared drew them so much closer—the same secrets that drove her and Granddad apart.

  I feel the tension in her shoulder muscles ease under my hand.

  After a moment, she blows her nose again, then looks at me and grabs my hand. “I am so proud of the woman you’ve become, Tallulah. You did it on your own. You were brave enough to walk away from all this poison. Not the way I wanted, of course.” She squeezes my hand. “I truly did think you’d be better off in Michigan. You and the twins would be shed of all this, have amazing opportunities I couldn’t provide. I thought it selfish of me to keep you here. Maybe I was wrong. But you. You were strong. You did what you’ve always done: you took care of yourself. And for that I am so proud.”

  “Oh, Gran, I wasn’t so strong or brave. I was hurt and angry.”

  “Tallulah, don’t you see? Hurt and anger make a strong person brave and a weak person broken.”

  I lay my head on her shoulder. The sun cuts lacework on the ground below the limbs of the old oak, just as it has for generations of Neelys. As I breathe in the heavy Mississippi air, I realize something else. The locked drawer in Gran’s dresser is her pecan tree by the river, the place she puts all the things that molded her but are too painful to bear.

  As we sit quietly on the
porch swing, a soft calm blooms in my heart. Gran’s road was so much more difficult than I ever imagined. I feel so lucky that we are no longer isolated from each other, no longer struggling through our worlds alone.

  32

  I help Gran upstairs for a rest. I can’t tell if the release of her secret has helped or just beaten her down. I pray Mr. Stokes is right, and this will be the beginning of a long-delayed healing.

  I’ve never really thought of Gran as a person separate from myself, one with an entire life of experiences that had nothing to do with me. I now understand the magnitude of her losses and the extraordinary strength it’s taken for her to carry that burden. She survived the only way she could. I can’t condemn her for it, because I haven’t done any differently. Isolating myself is just another form of denial, the one I’ve chosen to protect my inner self.

  As I’m leaving the room, she says, “I don’t want to trouble you, but I have a prescription that needs refilling.” I open my mouth, but she cuts me off. “Don’t look so alarmed, it’s just a special salve the doctor prescribed for my eczema. Would you mind running to the drugstore? I’ve been out for a few days, and the itch is acting up.”

  “I’m happy to, Gran. Do you need anything else while I’m out?” I’m too agitated to sit still and glad for the errand.

  “Pick up a pie at Donna Lynn’s. You need some meat on those bones.”

  I smile as I leave the room. “You’re one to talk.”

  “Make it lemon.” Then she calls after me, “Or anything but pecan. Donna Lynn never did learn how to do a proper pecan.”

  “Got it,” I call.

  As I pull into a parking space in front of Donna Lynn’s Bakery, I realize I haven’t had a piece of pie since I left Lamoyne nine years ago. After witnessing Gran’s misery today, I thought I might never be hungry again, but my mouth waters at the prospect of a flaky, lard-laden crust.

  A little bell on the door rings as I enter. Donna Lynn comes out from the back, wiping her hands on a towel. The pink uniform dress she’s wearing strains across her chest now, but her beaming smile hasn’t changed at all. Gran always said that the day Donna Lynn didn’t smile was the day the devil would take us all.

  “What can I get you, hon?”

  “Hello, Donna Lynn. Tallulah . . . from the orchard.”

  Her squeal is high enough to break glass as she hurries around the counter with her arms wide. She wraps me in a surprising hug. How could I have forgotten how nice she’s always been to us? She was one of the orchard’s most loyal customers.

  “God bless you for comin’ to help your granny.” She rocks us side to side. Then she puts me away from her and wrinkles her brow. “How’s she doin’? I been thinkin’ of her ever’ day.”

  “She’s doing well, all things considered.”

  “You tell her she’s in my prayers.”

  “I will. Thank you.” I’m not sure if this exuberance is simply Donna Lynn being Donna Lynn, or her penchant for taking in strays nobody else wants, mangy dogs and one-eyed cats—and Jameses. At a Rotary Club–sponsored dog show when I was eight, she pranced a half-bald, ear-bitten mutt around the 4-H arena as if it was a pedigree poodle. Everybody booed, but Griff and I clapped and whistled our hearts out.

  I can’t help but grab her in a quick hug again. She giggles.

  “I need a lemon pie.”

  “Comin’ right up. If it’s just you and your granny, I have tarts, instead.”

  The case is full of whole pies. “We’d like a whole, please. Aaaandd . . .” I look over the merchandise. “Is that a chess pie back in the corner there?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Let us have that one, too.”

  She hands the tied boxes over the counter to me. “Tell your granny Donna Lynn says hello.”

  As I walk back out to my rental, it strikes me that there was more good in Lamoyne than just the orchard and Maisie. I’ve let the shadows overcome the light.

  Thinking of Maisie, I drive down Eudora Avenue for old time’s sake. I crane my neck as I approach the Delmores’—foolishly, I know. Married to Dr. Marlon Springer, I doubt she’s still here suffering Mrs. Delmore’s crossness.

  The Delmores are on their front porch. The judge in a rocker; missus on the swing. The place looks as meticulous as ever, but they’re both white-haired and shrunken. The front screen swings open. I can scarcely believe my eyes when Maisie comes out carrying a tray with two tall glasses, the mandatory sprigs of fresh mint bright green on their rims.

  I swerve to the curb. I manage to keep from running up the front walk, but barely. I’m to the front steps before Maisie looks my way.

  Her eyes widen, and the smile she gives me warms me even more than Donna Lynn’s hug.

  “Tallulah James! Is that you?” Then she glances at Mrs. Delmore. “May I have a minute, ma’am?”

  I nod politely. “Mrs. Delmore. Judge.”

  Mrs. Delmore doesn’t look happy, but she flips a bony hand in dismissal.

  Maisie rushes down the steps, and I grab her in a hug.

  “Come ’round back where we can talk,” she says, grinning.

  As we walk to the backyard, she links her arm with mine, just like the old days. “I reckon it’s your family troubles that brought you back,” she says.

  “Seeing you takes some of the sting out of it.”

  “Pappy Stokes been real worried about Miss Lavada, says it was the blood pressure that took her to the hospital. She doin’ better?”

  I think of how exhausted she was when she laid down. “Everything is weighing on her.”

  “I never thought I’d see Walden be the one in trouble,” she says. “Haven’t seen him much this past year. I hear he moved down near New Orleans.”

  “Into a cult. How in the hell did that happen?”

  “That boy was always lookin’ for a place to belong—joined every scout, club, sport, and school group in town.”

  How can she see it so clearly? How could I not? “I should never have left him.”

  “Might not have made any difference,” she says with a shrug. “You did right, goin’ off to California on your own, making a life away from this place. I’m proud of you bein’ so strong.”

  “Strong would have been staying and dealing with reality.”

  “As I see it, reality was you needed to be away from here and all that happened. Aren’t you happy in California?”

  “I am, or at least I was. I lost my job—which is my whole life.”

  “A job isn’t a life!”

  The truth of those words rattles me so much I turn our talk away. “What about you?” I rub the gold band on her left hand. “Marlon making you happy?”

  “He is.” Her smile tells me that’s an understatement.

  “Well, he’d better be! I admit I was surprised to find you still working for missus Queen Bee.”

  She shrugs. “She’s so crotchety, who’d take care of her if I don’t? And Marlon’s doctoring day and night. We haven’t had any luck getting babies, so I figure I might as well stick here for now.”

  I hear the incessant dinging of a small bell.

  “That’d be missus Queen Bee now, ready to go inside. She can’t take two steps without fallin’.” Her hug reaches deep inside me, touching the void I’ve been ignoring for too many years. She releases me and gives a caring smile. “I pray for Walden.” She starts around the house. “Marlon and I have a phone. Call me!”

  I watch her disappear, hot tears of love and longing in my eyes.

  A job isn’t a life. Leave it to Maisie to shine a light on the lie I’ve been telling myself.

  I wait in the backyard until I hear the front screen snap shut. Then I wipe my face and walk back to my car, wondering if I’m strong enough to do something about it.

  33

  I’d prepared a list of tactics to convince Tommy to give up Griff’s number, tears (always effective on him back in the day) being the last resort. As it turned out, Tommy rolled quite easily. When I
called after Gran went to bed, he seemed relieved to tell me where Griff was, even though that was all he knew, a location—and only because of the switchboard answering the call before they redirected it to Griff.

  As soon as I hung up, I called American Airlines and booked a flight from New Orleans to San Antonio. This morning I told Gran I have to return to California for a couple of days for work and promised to be back for her appointment with Dr. Scott on Friday.

  Now, I’m clammy and trembling as I stand outside the last door between me and my older brother. A white-clad army nurse stops and asks me if I need assistance. I do, but not the kind she’s offering. I need the courage to open this door, to discover why Griff is in an army hospital in Texas.

  I thank her, take a breath, and push the door open.

  The window curtains are drawn, so the room is dim. He turns his head my way. His left arm, neck, and jawline are heavily bandaged, the sheet falls flat just below the knee of his left leg. I lean against the wall beside the door, light-headed, and whisper his name.

  He’s silent for a moment, then he says, “When I get out of here, I’m going to kill Tommy.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” I push myself from the wall and pray my knees will hold.

  “Because I didn’t want this to happen, for the first time you see me to be like this. Besides, you have enough going on with Gran and Walden.”

  I walk around the bed to Griff’s right side, the unbandaged side, and take his hand.

  He smiles at me, lopsided due to the wounds on the left side of his face. “I worried I’d never see you again.”

  I lean over and kiss his forehead. “Me, too.” I pull up the chair close to the bed and sit down. “What happened?”