Beach House Memories

by Mary Alice Monroe

  “What’s going on here?” she said in her imperious voice. “I could hear the screams all the way to my bedroom.”

  “None of your business, Miranda,” Stratton said. “Nor yours either,” he said to Flo. “This is a family affair.”

  “Not any longer,” she said to Stratton. “You should go. Right now. Or we will call the police.”

  Stratton worked his mouth, then lifted his arm and jabbed his index finger at Flo. “I’m going. Not because you told me to go. You’re disgusting, do you know that? It’s no wonder you’re not married. Who’d have you? But you,” he said, pointing to Lovie. “You get things cleaned up here and bring my children home. I’ll expect you back at the house by tomorrow. Not a day later, hear?”

  He rolled his shoulders, salvaging his dignity, and went to the sofa to grab his jacket. Then picking up his bags, he strode to the door, turning once more to deliver a warning look to Lovie before he walked out.

  Flo released a long sigh and lowered her arms. She turned and kneeled beside Lovie. Miranda hurried to their side, settling in a puddle of silk.

  Lovie coughed and whimpered as she felt Miranda’s fingers gently smooth the damp, bloodied hair from her face. Miranda gingerly lifted the arm that Lovie was cradling against her chest and tenderly moved probing fingers along the bones, stopping when Lovie yelped.

  “I think your ribs could be broken,” she said. “Oh, Lovie,” Miranda said in a pitying tone. Then she turned her head and said to Flo, “We need to get her to a hospital.”

  “No hospital,” Lovie said. “I’m fine.”

  “Oh, shut up,” Flo said, though there was no anger in it. “I know why you’re saying that. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. Now honey, listen to me. You’ve got to see a doctor. I’ll stay with you the whole time. Now come on, Lovie, try to stand,” she said, firmly guiding Lovie to her feet. “Real easy now. Mama, grab her other arm and help her up.”

  Lovie could barely straighten and squelched her cry of pain as something sharp jabbed in her side. She found it easier to hold her breath while she rose. At last she was on her feet and found a wobbly balance. The women guided her to a chair.

  Miranda hurried to the kitchen and returned with a cool damp cloth. With a mother’s care, Miranda dabbed at the blood on her face. Lovie closed her eyes and caught the scent of Miranda’s perfume.

  “Flo, darling, get me some ice in a clean towel, would you?” When Flo left, Miranda asked, “Where are the children, dear?”

  “At friends’,” she said, realizing how extraordinarily fortunate they were not to be here to witness her shame.

  “Thank heavens,” Miranda said kindly. “You be a good girl now and go with Flo. And we’ll clean up the house. Don’t fret. We’ll take care of you.” She sniffed back a sob that caught in her throat. “Child, it’s all going to be all right.”

  Nineteen

  Lovie had only been in a hospital three times in her life. Twice for the births of her children, then again for the death of her father. Life and death.

  And now shame.

  She brought her fingers to her face, letting the tips gently prod the bruised skin. How would she hide this from her children? She didn’t want them to be afraid. And Russell . . . thank God they’d said good-bye. Russell was flying out tomorrow, she thought with relief. She didn’t want to think what Russell might have done if he saw her and learned Stratton had hurt her. If only she’d gone away with him last night, she thought. Then Stratton would not have beaten her.

  Beaten her . . . She closed her eyes tight, disbelieving the words. Her husband had beaten her. She’d heard of such things, but no one she knew had ever been abused. She felt such shame.

  Lovie opened her eyes. Or, had they? What if she’d turned a blind eye to the troubles of her friends? No one wanted to peek behind the private curtains of a friend’s home. Her mother taught her not to pry into someone else’s marriage. It was too personal.

  Lovie wouldn’t dream of telling anyone what had happened tonight, the shame of it was too great. When she went home to Charleston, she’d tell everyone the same story that she’d told the doctor: that coming home from turtle patrol in the dark, she’d fallen down the porch stairs. Lovie thought of her friend Lulu’s bruises on her face. Lulu claimed they were from falling down the cellar stairs. How quick Lovie was to believe her. Now, she wasn’t sure.

  The green curtain that surrounded her cubicle noisily opened and the emergency room doctor walked in, carrying a clipboard. He was an older man with a shock of white hair and a pink, kindly face. She couldn’t remember his name. The pain medicine made her a little groggy. She watched him study her chart and thought that he was a gentle man, someone’s father and grandfather. She was relieved he wasn’t some young intern all eager and shiny as a new penny, full of questions. This doctor looked up, and behind his heavy black glasses, his eyes shone with wisdom of experience and concern.

  “Mrs. Rutledge, it’s very late. I could keep you here for the night. Let you get some rest. Tomorrow you can make arrangements for help.”

  “No,” she mumbled through swollen lips. “I’ll be fine. My friend is outside. And I’ll send for my maid.”

  He paused and looked at her chart. “Are you sure you feel safe going home?”

  He looked at her again, and she knew what he was asking. He’d seen injuries like hers many times over the years of his practice and didn’t believe for a minute that she’d fallen down the porch stairs in the dark. She considered whether to tell him the truth about her beating. But she felt too ashamed to utter the words.

  Besides, what could he do? Other than offer her a night’s stay, how could he help her? He’d mended her wounds and given her a prescription for pain medicine. If she wanted, he would file a police report. But of course Lovie could never do that. What happened between a husband and wife behind closed doors stayed behind closed doors.

  “I’ll be fine,” she said again, resolute. “I have a safe place to go to,” she told the doctor. “I have the beach house.”

  The inside of Flo’s car was so dark Lovie saw her friend as a rigid silhouette beside her in the front seat. Florence Prescott had been her dearest friend since childhood, and Lovie knew that though she was calm and methodical with her patients, when it came to her loved ones she could be emotional—erupting in a fiery fury or sitting in an icy cold. In between those extremes, Flo was the soul of reason and good advice. Lovie knew Flo was stewing, holding back words. She was smoking, a bad habit she’d been trying to quit. The tip of the cigarette glowed red in the dark. They were all exhausted and the hour was late. They drove most of the way home from the city in silence, but when they began crossing the marsh from the mainland, Flo let the geyser spout.

  “I can’t believe you told him you fell off the goddamn porch!” Flo exclaimed, pounding the steering wheel for good measure. “Do you think he’s a fool? Of course he knows you didn’t tumble down any stairs. He’s an ER doctor, for Christ’s sake.”

  Miranda reached over from the backseat to tap Flo’s shoulder. “We’ve had quite enough emotion for one night, don’t you think?” she asked. “And don’t take the Lord’s name in vain. I don’t want to tick Him off. I think we need all the help we can get right now.”

  Flo shook her head and sighed in frustration, but she cooled her tone of voice. “What are you going to tell your children? Your friends?” she asked Lovie.

  Lovie had her head resting against the thick leather of Flo’s big Lincoln. She moved her mouth slowly, maneuvering words through swollen lips. “I’m going to tell them I fell down the porch steps.”

  Flo cursed under her breath with a harsh shake of her head.

  “And that is what you are going to tell people who ask,” Lovie added. “Miranda, do you hear me back there?”

  “I hear you,” Miranda replied. “Don’t you worry, Lovie dear. We’ll do and say whatever you want. Won’t we, Florence?”

  Lovie relaxed, knowing Miranda had a strange power ove
r her daughter. Lovie knew from childhood that if Miranda called her daughter Florence, she meant business.

  “We’ll come by tomorrow, too,” Miranda said. “To clean up some and cook for the children.”

  “I’ve called Vivian,” Lovie said. “She’s coming tomorrow to help me pack up.”

  “Pack up?” asked Miranda. “You’re not still going back to Charleston tomorrow?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Because that bastard ordered you to go?” Flo asked, clearly angry.

  Lovie put her fingertips to her temples and rubbed small circles. “No. Because I want to leave the island. I don’t want a whisper of this to get back to Russell Bennett. Is that understood? He must leave as planned. And I want my children back home so they can start school on the first day.” Her voice shook. “I will not have my children upset over this.”

  “Aw, hell. They’re going to be upset anyway when they see you,” Flo grumbled. “Do you think they’ll believe your cockamamie story about falling off the porch? Lovie, you’ve got the balance of a mountain goat.”

  “They’ll believe what I tell them. Besides, Flo, where else can I go? He won’t let me stay at the beach house indefinitely.”

  “You could live with me,” Miranda said.

  “Thank you, dear, sweet Miranda,” Lovie replied. “You are the mother I never had and I love you for that. I would stay, but that would only be temporary. I don’t have any skills. I’ve never held a job. I couldn’t afford to get a place of my own. Even if I could, I won’t lose custody of my children. I’ve thought this all through carefully. I really don’t have a choice. I am going back.”

  “And what if he hits you again?”

  Lovie’s breath caught in her throat. Just hearing the words scared her. Of course she’d given this a lot of thought while sitting in the hospital, waiting and hurting. “I don’t think he will.”

  “You don’t think he will,” Flo repeated. “Heaven help me, what does that mean? Has he hit you before?”

  Lovie felt so vulnerable, so tired. “He’s slapped me. Nothing serious.”

  “Lord help me,” Miranda said softly from the back.

  Flo took a long drag from her cigarette. “You can’t go back. It’s escalating, don’t you see that?”

  “No, I don’t. Tonight was ugly. Terrifying . . . Flo, I gave him good reason.”

  “What!” Flo shouted out, swinging her head to glare at Lovie. The car swerved slightly before she corrected it. “There’s never a good reason for a man to hit a woman. But to beat her up? Jesus Christ, Lovie!”

  “Language!” Miranda called from the back.

  “I’m sorry, Mama, but I get crazy when I hear talk like that.”

  “Don’t you think I drove him to it?” Lovie cried. “I may not have broken his heart. But I did break my marriage vows.”

  “Lovie, did you forget I’m a social worker? I see abused women all the time, and so many of them believe he’ll never do it again. Or they believe it’s their fault. But then he does. These aren’t all poor women I’m talking about, either. This kind of thing crosses all economic and class barriers. The poor have nowhere to go, and the rich hide the scandal. Women have to speak out against abuse if we’re going to stop it.”

  “This is my life we’re talking about. I’m not on some feminist crusade.”

  “Lovie,” Flo argued, trying to calm her voice, “think about this life you’re talking about. Do you really want to spend the rest of your life like this? Afraid of the next time that fist will fall?”

  “I’ll make changes. I’ll—”

  “Stop,” Flo said. “You can’t change it. We’re talking about a pattern here, one that’s been going on for years. Stratton is controlling. He has anger issues. It’s not because of you he’s behaving this way. You’re his target. Something deeper inside of him makes him who he is. Long before Russell Bennett.”

  Lovie listened, let the words settle uncomfortably in her mind. “But the family . . . How can I break up my family?” Her voice broke.

  “What if his anger finds new targets? What if he starts in on the children?”

  “Don’t you think I haven’t gone over that possibility a million times in my mind? The only reason I’m going back is for my children.”

  “Your children can do well without him.”

  “But they can’t do well without me.”

  “Oh, hell, Lovie! Is this life worth lying for?”

  “I’m not lying,” she replied, putting her forehead wearily in her palm. “I’m not saying anything.”

  “Not speaking up is still a lie.”

  “All right, then,” Lovie said, dropping her palm and lifting her head. “It’s a lie. One I’ll have to live with. But I’m not telling anyone the truth about tonight. I can’t! Now stop badgering me.” Her voice shook. “And would you please get rid of that cigarette. It’s making me sick!”

  “Girls . . .” Miranda’s voice rose up from the back, soothing the tension. “We’re all tired and Lovie needs to rest. Let’s settle down.”

  Flo tossed the butt of her cigarette out the window. “The truth always comes out eventually,” she said in a calmer voice.

  Lovie turned her head. “How did Stratton find out about me and Russell?”

  Flo shifted in her seat and her hands tightened on the steering wheel. “There’s been gossip. I told you that.”

  Lovie frowned and looked out the window. Bits of light from house windows pierced the blackness. She had to accept the possibility that malicious wagging tongues were the likely source. But she was terrified of her suspicion that the culprit was her son. “I wondered about . . . whether it was Palmer.”

  “Palmer? Why him?” Flo asked, shocked.

  Lovie pictured her son’s pale face and his angry eyes, overflowing with accusation. She told Flo about the outburst and Cara’s story about Fort Moultrie. She told of how Russell and she had parked in that parking lot. “I’m worried that he saw us in the lot together . . . Russell kissed me good-bye.”

  “Oh, God,” Flo said, shaking her head. “You have to talk to him,” she said urgently. “Find out what he saw. He might not’ve seen a thing. But if he did see you together, he’s going to wonder what really happened to you. Palmer is too old not to suspect the truth and too young to shoulder that burden.”

  Lovie put her hand to her mouth as tears welled up in her eyes. “I will,” Lovie said, wondering how she’d ever find the courage to confront her son about such a sensitive matter, how she could look him in his eyes and face his anger again.

  “But not tonight, dear,” Miranda said from the back. They were pulling up at Lovie’s beach house. “Tonight you just let the medicine do its work, dear, and get some sleep. Tomorrow will be here soon enough.”

  At ten o’clock the next morning, Vivian walked into the beach house, a bouquet of daisies in her hand. Miranda welcomed her like a long-lost cousin. As she ushered Vivian into the living room, the air was rent by a scream and Cara came bounding into the room, arms out, on a beeline for Vivian. She dropped her bag just in time to catch the girl in a tight embrace.

  “Lord, Lord, child! What’s got into you?”

  Cara’s face was buried against Vivian’s breast. She was holding on tighter than an alligator with its prey. “I missed you.”

  From the bedroom, Lovie watched the exchange with bittersweet feelings. She knew Vivian loved this child more than she had a right to. Sometimes, Lovie was jealous of the bond they shared, especially this morning, when she’d told the white lie to Cara about her bruises.

  “I’ve only been gone for the summer. But I’m here now, and I’ve come to help you pack up your things and bring you back home, where you belong.”

  “I belong here at the beach house,” Cara replied.

  In her room, Lovie smiled, ignoring the pain it took to do so.

  “This won’t be such a big job,” Vivian said in a loud voice ringing with optimism. “I might even get time to walk down to t
he beach and take a peek at that ocean. Now, where’s your mama?” she asked Cara.

  “She’s still in bed.”

  “Really?” Vivian asked with surprise. “I best go right to her, then.”

  “Let me get some water for those flowers,” Miranda said.

  “Is she awake?” Vivian asked.

  “Yes, I believe she is,” Miranda replied. “Uh, Vivian . . . Lovie’s had an accident.”

  Cara said, “She’s hurt pretty bad.”

  Vivian didn’t reply and went directly to the bedroom.

  “Miss Lovie? You awake?”

  “Yes.” Lovie lay on her back, propped up by pillows. Her cast lay against her belly.

  “This room looks like a sickroom,” Vivian exclaimed, going to the windows. “I always says that I like this room the most,” she told Lovie as the first shade rattled up. She crossed the room, opening the blinds, chattering on. “It might not be as grand as your bedroom in town, but to me, this room looks so white and fresh, like a field of snow. Here we go.” She pushed open the French doors to the porch, allowing the breeze to blow in from the blue ocean beyond. “Now, ain’t this better?”

  She turned toward the bed, and in the morning light Lovie could see her dark eyes widen as she stared at her. Vivian hurried to the bedside. “Miss Lovie, what happened to you? You look like you done gone ten rounds in a boxing match and lost. Is that a cast?”

  “I broke my wrist. And a few ribs.”

  “Lord have mercy.” Vivian stood beside the bed with her hands clasped around the daisies, shaking her head and studying Lovie’s face with a frown.

  “Thank you for coming on such short notice.” Her words sounded slurred through her split lip.

  “Why, Miss Lovie. Of course I’d come,” Vivian said, and held out the flowers. “I came out in Mr. Stratton’s big car to help you load up. And I brought these for you, to cheer you up. Looks like you need it, too.”