Magnolia City

by Duncan W. Alderson

  “I find all this unbelievable,” Hetty said, as they returned to the living room and sat on the sofa. “Everything about Guadalupe is so magical.”

  “Listen to this!” Cora spread her hands in the air for emphasis. “If you enlarge a photograph of her eyes twenty-five hundred times, you find a tableau of all the people present when the tilma was unfolded, reflected on her cornea. As an artist, I know how impossible that would be to paint.”

  “¡Sí! ¡Fantástico!” Hetty said, trying to picture it. “I think I’m becoming a—what did you call it?—Guadalupana? I’ve been looking for a goddess.”

  “She’s the only one we’ve got, really.”

  The quiet of the evening settled around them as stars started glimmering unseen in the sky above. “Where’s Pierce?”

  “I put him to bed long ago.”

  “Thanks, Tía.” Hetty sighed. “You make me ashamed of myself. You’re so good and kind and loving and . . . regal. A true consort of the Empress.”

  Cora shook her head and smiled. “I’m only her handmaiden, trying to learn to serve her.”

  “That’s what I want to become,” Hetty said, pulling out her Luckies and lighting one. “But I don’t even know where to start. What advice do you think Guadalupe would have for me?”

  “Just this. Stop starving yourself.”

  “Me? Starving myself?” Hetty’s cigarette froze midway to her mouth. “You’re saying this about me, of all people? I’m the one who—”

  “Think about it, m’ija. When have you ever really allowed yourself to stop and feast upon life?”

  Hetty felt the familiar coldness in her arms and saw the empty hallways that haunted her mind. “Never,” she said sadly.

  Chapter 18

  Hetty wanted to get up the very next day and head back to Houston to sell the tequila plata, but Cora made her sit down on the sofa and not move for the entire morning.

  “In fact, lie down,” her aunt commanded.

  Hetty found this hard to do. Her feet curled around each other, bare and restless, ready to move—her blood surged with Cora’s dark, rich coffee. She tossed about like one of the cats turning and turning until it found a comfortable spot to lie in. In her mind, she saw road signs flashing by on the Sequin highway, while she rehearsed what she would say to Garret’s old clients. Her aunt was right. She simply couldn’t relax and let herself be. Some hidden place in her soul ticked away like a clock wound too tightly. Everything felt balanced on a hairspring. It took her a long time to find a comfortable position to rest in. She sank into it and took a deep breath. Thoughts swirled inside her. She remembered the message Miguel had shared from the Virgin: “Let not your heart be disturbed.” She took comfort in that. As the morning stretched on, the mechanisms of her mind began to wind down. She could feel the second hand moving slower and slower until it stopped. And she was just there, in her aunt’s river house, listening to the birds singing, feeling the ceiling fan brush cool morning air on her arms, catching whiffs of chocolate mole sauce bubbling in a pot on the stove. It’s all right to lie here, Hetty told herself. Aunty gave me permission.

  She watched the way Cora frolicked with Pierce on the carpet. She was down at his level, mirroring his moves, holding his eyes with hers, and weaving game after game out of the noisemakers in the old baúl. Hetty noticed for the first time how her aunt turned play into serious business: She merged her being with the baby’s, partnering him—two hands in a dance that redefined space. It was a pleasure to watch them move about the room. Pierce could only go on so long without toddling over to his toy telephone and pumping the receiver to make it chime, then listening to what it said to him.

  “I’ve never gotten down on the floor and played with Pierce like that,” Hetty said.

  Cora glanced up, brushing her long pigtail aside. “Have you ever listened to what his toy telephone says?”

  With chagrin, Hetty admitted she hadn’t.

  “You should sometime,” Cora said as she stood and wandered into the kitchen to prepare lunch. Hetty rolled herself off the sofa onto the floor. Pierce paid her no mind, engrossed in shaking a dried calabash gourd. Hetty tried recreating her aunt’s choreography across the carpet, picking up a Bolivian flute and blowing into it, then waving the flute at Pierce. She had to do this several times before he crawled over to try it himself. Then she had to show him how to blow into it before he managed to elicit a faint sound. She clapped when it happened. Slowly, she drew her son to her, forsaking that mother’s way she had of distracting him with a toy while she preoccupied herself with adult matters. She focused entirely on him and maintained a lot of eye contact. This new intimacy felt unfamiliar to Hetty. She was even surprised at how different the room looked from a child’s point of view. You noticed other things down here—the legs of chairs, the bells that had rolled under the sofa, the green eyes of cats watching from the shadows of the hallway. When she lay down and looked up, she saw sky out of windows; the dark sideboard loomed overhead, and the ceiling seemed vast.

  But most of all, she began to see Pierce in a different way. He became more than a mouth to be fed, a diaper to be changed. He started following her every move, sitting in her lap, crawling all over her, giggling and smelling of sour milk and talcum, showing her the games he’d learned from his great-aunt. As much as her child seemed a part of her, as often as she’d looked at him, Hetty was amazed to realize that she’d never seen him. And here he was now, using the sofa to pull himself up, standing in front of her in his seersucker overalls, one bare arm dancing in the air, the other holding on to the sofa, eyes as blue as his father’s, watching her to see what she’d do next. She couldn’t stop looking at him, as if a nimbus surrounded his entire body. He was the perfect mixture of them all: the MacBride brawniness, her mestiza spice, Kirb’s clear English complexion. Pierce blazed with baby glamour, and Hetty found herself entranced. She kept waiting for him to go over and pick up his toy telephone. But as long as she played with him, he ignored it. Finally, she couldn’t stand it any longer. She scooted over and picked up the phone herself, pumped the receiver, then held it up to her ear to see what he’d been listening to for months. At first it rang, then the diaphragm inside bleated with a reedy little voice. It said, “Mama.”

  The next morning Hetty stood holding her baby on the porch, looking out at the walkway that wound its way to the street under the giant pecan. When they left today, they would walk under the pink blossoms of the mimosa tree, through the overgrown garden, and past the sign that read, THE COSMOS: WE’RE OUT OF THIS WORLD. Sunbeams alighted here and there in the branches like birds. You could feel the day’s heat dipping into the deep shade, haunted by the blue vapors of river water rising and making the wind chimes ring.

  Cora stepped out, a hoop of cats skirting her.

  “Gato,” Hetty said, pointing at Cassandra. It was a new game she’d been playing with Pierce all morning: Tell Me What the Mexicans Call It. She hoped his first word would be Spanish. She used to resent it when he clung to her like this, but now she couldn’t get enough of him.

  Hetty saw Cora watching them with an aunt’s sense of pride. “Thanks for showing me my son.”

  She smiled sagely. “Now you can throw his telephone away.”

  “Pues, sí.” There was so much that could be said, but Hetty didn’t know how to phrase it in either language. “I guess it’s time for adiós.”

  “Not before a Pierce sandwich!” Cora threw her arms around them both, engulfing mother and child in her earthy aromas.

  “Do I have your blessing to leave?”

  “Sí, sobrina,” Cora said, drawing back. “I’m ready to let you go. You’ll be all right now.”

  “Seca said I had to find my own sendero.”

  “He’s right. The way will open.”

  “Pretty smart for an old smuggler, eh?”

  “Ah, but look at what he smuggles.”

  “Mescal. Another thing you introduced me to. I owe you so much, Tía. How can I ever than
k you?”

  “De nada. That’s what aunts are for—don’t you know that? Our job is to knock some sense into our nieces and get them drunk.”

  “Then you succeeded brilliantly. As long as I drink mescal for my tummy, not my head, right?”

  Cora nodded. “Approach it tenderly. It is the heart of Mexico.”

  “Speaking of heart—how can I find my husband? Any advice about that?”

  “Call him to you.”

  “Is it really that simple?”

  “It’s really that natural. The universe is run by intention, not chance.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Hetty said, stepping down onto the walkway—her lips already silently forming into the words, Come find me, Mac. I miss you. And hurry up, dammit.

  That weekend, Hetty had her first experience of being a ladylegger. She drove to Houston and, using Pearl’s telephone to call clients, spent most of Saturday and Sunday making her deliveries. She certainly looked the part, in her lace-up boots and pants, a purple bruise on her cheek, a Lucky hanging out of one corner of her mouth. Just call me Kelly Bushings, men. By noon Monday, she had sold her entire stock and stopped by Cleveland’s office to pay off the balance. She retrieved the wads of cash bulging in her trouser pockets, the kind of limp, wrinkled bills bartenders always pulled out of their cash registers. There were a lot of ones and fives, so it took Cleve a good twenty minutes to thumb through two thousand dollars.

  “Is it all there?” she asked.

  He stashed the funds in the top drawer of his massive desk. “D’y’all rob a bank?”

  Hetty smiled. “Let’s just say I gambled everything and won.”

  When she got back to the boardinghouse, she found out that Pearl had taken a job cleaning up the lunch dishes for a part-time wage of fifty cents a day. While her friend was downstairs working, Hetty decided it was time to balance all her accounts. She took out her passbook and opened to the entries she’d made. She crossed off Dolorosa Street and scribbled her initials there like the tellers used to do: HMB. She drew a line through Miguel’s name and replaced the question marks with a heart. She struck out “Lamar’s love” and wrote “Account closed” with the date and HMB. That left the other three she’d made under Withdrawals: My father’s love; My place in society; Nella’s knees. How could she balance those out? She began by writing a letter:

  Dearest Pearl,

  I know you didn’t want to accept this cash, so that’s why I’ve hidden it here with your undies. I was hoping to restore all the money you lost on your house, but perhaps this will be enough for a down payment on a new one. I also have a piece of incredibly good news that I’ve saved to share with you in the letter. Seca told me that his father has it on good authority that Prohibition will soon be repealed. And you know what that means—Odell will be released! I’ve always felt bad that your husband was arrested and mine wasn’t. It just seems so unfair—that’s the luck of the Irish, I guess. So please, please, please accept the enclosed—it’s a way to give back to you and Odell all that you’ve given Garret and me. It’s only $333.33, not the riches I wanted to rain down upon you, but the best I can do. I owe you so much more than this—please know, along with the money, this envelope is bulging with gratitude. I thank you from the bottom of my broken heart. I wish you roses, roses from now on. You’ve had your share of thorns.

  All my love,

  Your friend,

  Hetty MacBride

  She folded the letter up and slid it inside one of the bank envelopes she’d been saving, then tucked the envelope in the top drawer of Pearl’s dresser, the one that fit crookedly on its track. When Pierce woke up from his afternoon nap, she dressed him in a sailor suit and headed south on Main Street to the Warwick.

  Hetty parked the Wichita in the circular driveway of the hotel and carried Pierce into the solarium. As she walked down the long stretch of the lobby, the black walnut pillars gleamed as darkly as ever but, when she reached the elevator lobby at the back, only one of the three lifts was working. After a long wait, she finally arrived on the eighth floor and knocked on the family suite. Lina answered the door, throwing her hands up and exclaiming, “¡Mi chiquito! Come to your Lina. Que grande estás, m’ijo.” She gathered Pierce into her arms and said, “I’m going to give you besos!” She kissed him several times, then carried him into the drawing room. “Look who’s here—your grandson.”

  Hetty followed her, catching the scent of Darjeeling tea in the air. Damn, I forgot, it’s Mah-jongg Monday. That means Lockett will be here.

  “Ah-ha! Aren’t you the natty little boy,” Nella said, reaching for the child and balancing him on her lap so Lockett could see him in his sailor suit. Nella was dressed in one of her mah-jongg–themed outfits, a lampshade tunic and turban designed by Paul Poiret.

  “Oh, my,” Lockett said from her armchair, “he does look like his father.”

  “You’re a sailor boy. Yes, you are!” Nella rocked him on her knee for a few minutes, making him laugh. Lina withdrew to the kitchen. “Don’t rock the boat. Don’t rock the boat.” She held his little hands and beamed with a pride that rarely irradiated her cool and detached manner.

  “La barca,” Hetty said, making a boat with her hands.

  Lockett watched her wide-eyed.

  “Come ride in a boat with grandmamá!” Nella swayed with the child.

  “La abuela,” Hetty said, pointing at Nella, who frowned up at her.

  “Why is she speaking Spanish to that child?” Lockett said with indignation.

  “I want him to grow up bilingual, Lockett. How are you?”

  “I didn’t even know you spoke Spanish—”

  “Oh, yes, we always—”

  “And is that a bruise on your cheek—”

  “La contusión,” Hetty said, pointing at her face.

  Nella looked alarmed and quickly bundled the child up. “Guess what granny has for you? Strawberry ice cream. Let’s see if Lina will feed you some.”

  As Nella carried the confused child through the swinging door into the kitchen, Hetty waved and said, “Disfruta de tu nieve, mi carino. Mamá está aquí.”

  “Be quiet!” Lockett shrieked. “Y’all sound like the maids.”

  “Maybe that’s ’cause I was raised by one.” Lockett looked at her, speechless.

  “How about some English tea, dear?” Nella cut in with a reproving glance at her daughter as she strode back through the swinging door.

  “Por favor,” Hetty answered, returning the dirty look. She retreated to her favorite sofa, the one always smothered in silk cushions. When Nella brought the tea service over, she scowled down at Hetty and placed a finger on her lips.

  “Thanks, Mamá.” Hetty nodded. “How’s life in the old bankrupt hotel? I notice only one elevator is working.”

  “It’s becoming intolerable,” Nella said, sitting back down wearily. “Everything takes an eternity.”

  “Next thing,” Lockett said, “we’ll be walking up the stairs.” She had obviously decked herself out for the mah-jongg tournament, too, as her pink crepe de chine actually ended in ruffles. “And you don’t dare go out after dark.”

  “The electric company has turned off the streetlamps,” Nella said.

  “And have you heard this?” Lockett turned to Hetty and paused dramatically.

  “What, Lockett?”

  “They’re canceling No-Tsu-Oh next spring. Indefinitely!”

  “The cotton carnival? How can they?”

  “First time in over thirty years! Jessie Carter’s on the committee. She told me personally.”

  Nella sighed. “It’s the end of an era. I guess we can assume that the siècle is definitely fin.”

  “But, y’all! You can’t put on a masquerade in this economy. It’s not going to wash.” Lockett pulled her ruffles down over her knees. “Let’s look on the bright side—at least we get our bridge tables free now in the women’s lounge.”

  Hetty started spooning sugar into her tea. “Well, never fear, Mamá.
I paid Cleveland off this morning, so you’ll be getting all your money back.”

  “I knew Lamar would help. He’s such a wonderful son-in-law. He’ll always look out for us, all of us—and that includes you too, Esther. Not like that lousy Irishman of yours. Has he shown up yet?”

  “No, he hasn’t.” She added three more spoonfuls of sugar.

  “What did I tell you?” Lockett cooed to Nella.

  “He’s gone for good,” Nella said. “You might as well accept it.”

  “That poooooor child,” Lockett drawled sadly.

  “Indeed. But at least Lamar came through.”

  “As a matter of fact, he didn’t. I sold the Ada Hillyer to someone else.”

  “Why?” Nella demanded. “Out of spite?”

  Hetty cradled her teacup in both hands. Its heat scalded her fingertips.

  “Couldn’t you let your sister benefit from it?” Nella asked.

  “Lamar and Char have thirty wells of their own. I, now, have none.”

  Nella sputtered with exasperation. “But—but—did you talk to him at all?”

  Hetty sipped at her tea calmly. “Oh, yes, Mamá. I humiliated myself just like you wanted me to. I drove over to the Goss farm and found him in the Splendora field. I offered the well to him for five thousand dollars.”

  The two women watched her. “So . . .” Lockett moved to the edge of her chair, pink ruffles spilling about her knees. “What did he say?”

  “I don’t think I should repeat it.”

  “May I remind you—I was your biggest investor,” Nella said. “I think I deserve an explanation.”

  A gleam came into Lockett’s eyes. Gossip. “She’s right, Esther. You mustn’t hold out on your mother.”

  “Let’s drop this, please, or I’ll have to speak the truth. And you won’t like it.”

  “We’re all adults here,” Nella said.

  “All right, if you insist.” Hetty sank deeper into the silver cushions. “He wouldn’t buy it unless I spent the night with him.”