by Scott, Jamie
Mister Reynolds wasn’t blind to his daughter’s infatuation. After a few visits from the young man, the time came to have a chat with his daughter. He called her into the study after dinner one night and over several neat scotches told her of his plans to marry her off.
Mirabelle sensibly pointed out that Henry hadn’t asked her yet.
‘Well surely he hasn’t darkened our doorstep this often just to discuss the weather?’
There was no way she was going to tell her father the exciting things they did discuss together. He’d have fallen over dead to know he’d raised a woman of such prurient character. They talked about their lives, their ambitions and dreams, she said. It was technically if not completely true.
‘Well now, daughter, do his ambitions and dreams include a wife?’ Mister Reynolds suspected he recognized the sort of man that Henry was.
‘Not yet, Papa.’
Mister Reynolds dismissed his daughter and she retired to her room for a good cry, scribbling away in her journal. She loved Henry. That was that. She knew he’d eventually ask her to marry him. In the meantime she planned to do everything in her power to convince him to hurry up.
Chapter 12
I caught Ma crying into the clean clothes. She didn’t see me see her so I went back into the kitchen to mind my own business. I knew what the problem was. She was lonesome.
My parents were the kind of couple that people today mistakenly cite as evidence of the blind convention that bound married people so tightly together in the forties. But they spent all their time together out of love, not compulsion. Ma won Duncan’s heart during history class in nineteen thirty–one. The professor’s offhand remark awakened in Ma a discourse so passionate, so well reasoned that my father could do nothing but watch her with his mouth open. This woman, he told his bored but charitable friends, had ideas and ideals, something sorely lacking or at least unexpressed by the delicate flowers that had decorated his arm to date. In my mother, Duncan glimpsed his equal and he loved her for it. She had exactly the opposite effect on my grandparents. In her they saw the end of their dreams and worse, and never forgave her. So, like lightening cleaves a tree, marrying Ma cleanly separated Duncan from his family.
The fact was, they had to marry, since more than their intellects had excited their passions. Within the year they were expecting me. Neither believed so much in matrimony but being a good thirty years before the sexual revolution, Harvard insisted on a marriage certificate before we were allowed to nest in its student housing. So one afternoon in a registry office just off Harvard Square, they shrugged off their pasts like winter coats in warm weather, and looked forward to their future.
In Williamstown they had their long time friends, men and women who came in pairs to be shared out, one for Duncan and one for Ma. Mostly, though, they had each other. Now, my father was sculpting a new social life through Georgia’s college system, spilling his stories of camaraderie and conquest over the dinner table each night. As I listened to him I realized I was naïve to think Savannah didn’t have its own share of liberals lurking in the bushes. They were there, and they were drawn to Duncan. Sadly for Ma his new friends didn’t come with spouses, and alone she wasn’t enjoying the same social successes. Where he and I had a reservoir of potential friends to choose from, Ma’s universe began and ended with the streets that bordered our neighborhood. It was a small world to live in.
She did her best to work with what little material she had, starting with Jim’s Nan. She was nervous when Missus Rumer settled herself politely on our sofa. She had a way of twisting the little hairs at her temples when she was uncomfortable. I knew it well enough. Our last few years in Williamstown saw a lot of hair–twirling.
As she poured their tea, she said, ‘Well, Missus Rumer, thank you for coming by. I really just wanted to introduce myself and say how much I’m enjoying the neighborhood. Folks have been so nice.’
‘We are known for our hospitality, Missus Powell–’
‘Please, call me Sarah.’
‘Thank you, Sarah,’ she said, not returning the favor. ‘It’s nice to have young families moving in. And Yank– Northerners, well, we don’t get many of you all. Tell me my dear,’ she asked, smiling tightly. ‘Who are your people?’
‘Ma’am?’
‘Your family.’
‘Oh. Uh, we come from Boston.’
‘Boston. There are some fine old families up there. But no, I don’t believe I’ve heard of the Powells. Are they a very old family?’
‘I don’t think so. Not very old anyway, but I’m afraid I don’t know a lot about them.’
‘I see. Well.’ Our guest’s lips pursed together like Ma’d filled her teacup with lemons. ‘My Jim seems to be getting along fine with your daughter.’
Ma chortled. ‘They’ve been joined at the hip since we arrived. I think they’re best friends in the making. They’ve become awfully close.’
‘Well, I trust not too close.’
‘Oh no, nothing like that. They’re just pals, I’m sure.’
‘Because it wouldn’t be appropriate.’
‘No, not to worry. They’re only friends.’
‘I have plans for Jim, you see. He’s going to be something some day.’
Ma was quiet. ‘In fact, Missus Rumer, May is going to be pretty great too. She already is.’
‘I didn’t mean–’
‘Of course not.’
‘It’s only that I’ve raised my Jim to understand that he needs to work hard, get the best grades, so he can go to college and study finance. My late husband was very successful you know, in banking. Jim’s going to follow in his footsteps. If it means he doesn’t have a lot of time for friends, well, I’m sure you understand.’
‘Yes, I’m sure I do.’
Ma threw in the towel before they’d sipped through their second cup of tea. I didn’t blame her. My mother was generally light–hearted when she wasn’t on her soapbox. She had a mischievous streak a mile wide that, luckily for me, was usually aimed at Duncan. She once presented a bundle of sponges slathered in chocolate icing to Duncan for his birthday. We sang heartily, beaming wide as Duncan blew out his candles. She handed him the knife with a flourish. ‘What’s the matter, Duncan?’ She asked sweetly as he started to sweat. The last thing he wanted to do was insult her cooking so he sawed and sawed until he saw Ma’s face. It was hard to imagine Missus Rumer appreciating her sense of humor. Ma needed friends able to match her frivolity and fervor in turn. The mean or the meek need not apply. So much for neighborly neighbors, I thought, but Ma was dogged in her pursuit of a friendly face within walking distance. Eventually she stumbled upon our across–the–street neighbor, the lady in the hat who spied on Jim and me on my first day in town. Ma set her hook for the big catch. My birthday was to be her tantalizing bait. It was to be her coming–out in Savannah.
My sweet sixteen had all the makings of a colossal washout. I hadn’t been in town long enough to meet a respectable number of potential guests, let alone convince them that my party invitation was the best thing going. But Ma wasn’t swayed by our lack of willing revelers. She planned with an enthusiasm that made Shirley Temple look like a sourpuss. She even took me shopping for a party dress, which was quite a sacrifice for someone so attached to her Singer sewing machine.
Savannah’s shopping district ran along Broughton Street and Adler’s Department Store presided over the stretch like Jesus at the Last Supper. Old Mister Adler knew how to entice shoppers who dared try to walk past without a peek inside. Enormous panes of glass flaunted the most delicate hats, sumptuous coats and newfangled appliances for all with the means to buy. As we pushed through the doors, I realized why Ma made me put on my best dress to go shopping for my best dress.
She was bursting with pride at the prospect of a day out together. Her step was springy as she rushed to point out every piece of jewelry, each hat or glove as if I’d lost the ability to recognize everyday objects. I tolerated her enthusiasm only because she
showed no inclination to steer me towards the lingerie department. Ma’d initiated me into the world of ladies undergarments just as soon as she detected the slightest bumps on my chest. I was literally bound by convention to wear layers of underwear in public. Gone were those halcyon days of freedom in simple drawers and undershirts. Foundation wear gave its all beneath my clothes to make the most of my scant attributes.
‘What kind of dress would you like, May?’
What would I like? Something that made me the most beautiful girl in the room, nay, in the City of Savannah. Naturally.
The perfect dress was the caboose on a long train of rejected frocks. I was going on sixteen, I reminded Ma and the saleslady time and again. After scores of children’s confections, the perfect costume was delivered in the hands of one very weary and out–of–patience salesclerk. It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.
Ma paid the clerk but had one more card up her sleeve. She led me to the footwear department and straight to a shelf twinkling with high heeled shoes. In the forties your first pair of heels was a rite of passage almost as important as, well, your sixteenth birthday. ‘Which ones shall we try?’ Ma grinned at me. ‘Ma, really?’ Really. I was a woman, she seemed to say. A woman who had earned the right to wear such an outfit.
Wishing that Lottie could be with me wasn’t going to bring her eight hundred miles. It would be the first milestone that she wasn’t in hugging distance of. When Duncan could no longer stand my moping, he agreed to send me to Williamstown by bus over the summer. The irony of his decision wasn’t lost on either of us. I thought hard about it and wrote to ask Lottie to come to Savannah instead. Aside from the fact that I knew just how boring the bus ride was, it would be more fun to have Lottie visit me and meet my friends. The good people at Greyhound would deliver my best friend within a week of her final exams. Our letters took on a new direction. There was a lot of planning to do once we had a target to aim at.
Meanwhile I had more immediate social plans to contend with. As handy as I was with scissors and paste it took me the better part of a week to make the invitations. I was nervous when the time came to give them out. At home it never occurred to me that my offer wouldn’t be snapped up with a smile. There, whole neighborhoods were invited to parties, so anyone begging off an invitation had to be willing to hide in the house on the day. In Savannah, I was on much less steady ground.
Jim and Fie didn’t worry me. They were as lacking in social alternatives as I was. But I decided that if I was going to ask virtual strangers to my house anyway, I may as well aim high. I planned to invite the popular girls. They were nice enough when we talked in class but a party invite was another matter altogether. They lived in a wide world of potential social engagements and weighed each invitation carefully before delighting or disappointing its presenter. I practiced all morning, then tendered my bid as nonchalantly as humanly possible.
‘Why thank you!’
‘Thank you!’
‘Your birthday? I had no idea, thank you!’
‘You’re welcome. So it’s on Saturday. It’ll be a lot of fun.’ I hesitated, wondering how boys managed to ask girls out all the time. ‘I hope you can come.’
‘Well I don’t think we’re busy. Listen, gotta run!’
‘So–’
‘Okay, we’ll see–’
‘Then you can–?’
‘Come on girls–’
‘Because it’ll be–’
‘See you later!’ They were off to class in a flurry of clicking heels and lively chatter.
‘... fun.’
Were they coming or not? It seemed like they’d accepted. But there was always the chance. Did Minty say ‘we’ll see’ as in ‘... you later?’ or ‘we’ll see... if we feel like coming’? If I asked again would I look desperate? I decided I would. I told Ma to expect five guests.
Chapter 13
Saturday morning dawned windy and gray. Savannah hardly ever suffered a direct hit but autumn was hurricane season, when the winds in the Atlantic conspired to slap the coastal towns silly. The eighth Atlantic storm of nineteen forty–seven donned a party hat for my birthday.
My parents knocked on my door at an unsociably early hour, carrying my all–time favorite breakfast and grinning like my birthday was their bright idea. I spied two wrapped packages, one big one (clothes) and an intriguing little one. It’d be childish to wrench the boxes from Duncan’s hands so I perched on my mattress as if I hadn’t noticed them.
He smoothed the sheet–rubbed hair from my forehead. ‘What's knitten', kitten? Want to open your gifts or have your breakfast first?’
‘Maybe you should eat first, so your breakfast doesn’t get cold.’ Ma knew well enough that I’d be eating cold pancakes with torn wrapping paper for company.
In the big box was my first pair of dungarees. They were a fairly recent fashion discovery and my parents were wholeheartedly against girls wearing them. Duncan likened them to Beelzebub and blamed the decline of all western morality on them. Ma was more realistic, thinking them unladylike and ugly. I couldn’t wait to try the little devils on.
Duncan handed me the little gift. Carefully I peeled the tape, folded back the paper and peeked inside. A velvet box. Inside, suspended on an impossibly delicate gold chain was a milky stone that winked fire. ‘It’s an opal, your birth stone.’ It was beautiful. I bounced from the mattress to hug and kiss my thanks. They got awfully sentimental. Duncan looked a little teary. I couldn’t think why the anniversary of a child’s birth would be so emotional for her parents.
I held my hair up for Ma to fasten the clasp. ‘When I turned sixteen,’ she said. ‘My parents gave me a necklace just like this, but with my birthstone instead. It meant a lot to me... I still have it. Anyway, I thought you could wear this today with your dress. Let’s see. Aw, that’s pretty.’ I had to agree.
The guests weren’t due until one but Dora Lee was already singing in the kitchen when I came downstairs in my dungarees. She appraised me with a smile. ‘You look like Rosie the Riveter in those dungarees! Miss, they’re real nice – you’ll turn heads when everyone sees you.’ I thought so too, though my audience was to be an intimate one. My new jeans came with more wearing than washing instructions. My parents might have conceded to their purchase, but they weren’t about to let me out of their sight in them. I wasn’t to set foot outside our neighborhood even if the house was on fire.
Baking smells played around the kitchen. Dora Lee took charge of the punch and the snacks but my birthday cake was Ma’s operation. Each year she chose a theme for its decoration under a shroud of mystery that would have made J. Edgar Hoover proud. We weren’t allowed to see it until the lights were dimmed and her creation set fire to. To keep from stumbling upon it before the unveiling, I stayed in the living room fixing crepe paper to every bare inch of wall and blowing up balloons until my cheeks hurt. I was so excited I felt sick. I’d come down with a case of Ma’s high hopes for the party. I dared to glimpse the chance to catch myself some popular friends. My motives caused me no distress, though Duncan’s mother did flash unbidden to my mind. I dismissed her easily. This was different – I truly liked the girls, or at least what I knew of them.
The buzzer rang at one o’clock on the dot. And rang and rang. Trust Jim to be right on time. ‘Hi, May. Wow, you look pretty.’ I blushed at the compliment, even coming from him. He looked like his Nan had scrubbed him raw with a Brillo brush. He’d even managed to get his hair to lie flat on top. When he handed over a clumsily wrapped package, his wrists extended a good few inches from the ends of his cuffs. Dora Lee beckoned us to the dining room where an enormous crystal bowl held her raspberry punch. I chased lumps of sherbet around with the ladle until I’d filled our glasses. ‘Why don’t you put on some music?’ Ma suggested. Duke, Dizzy, Benny, Glenn and the Count were waiting in my parents’ record collection to entertain us. I flipped through the 78s until I found Savannah’s son, Johnny Mercer. He wasn’t my favorite but I figured the guests wo
uld appreciate the nod to local culture.
The sky finally put some bite to its bark and rain pelted in sheets against the windows. Fie and our across–the–street neighbor, Missus Welles, blew through the door at the same time. Fie lived downtown, which was a long walk on a nice day. With a hurricane brewing, she’d cajoled her mother into driving her over. Her mom came in, but only stayed long enough to make sure Fie wasn’t spending the afternoon with reprobates. That accomplished, she made her exit to Ma’s disappointment.
‘Wow, May, you look beautiful!’ She hugged me happy birthday. I returned the praise and thought she was right. I was mint green from head to toe except for the wide dark green band that cinched my waist. The dress whistled when I walked, lacy silk layers shivering with each step. I managed my new shoes pretty well, too, though I was only able to mince along where normally I trod in flat–footed confidence.
Missus Welles and Ma acted like schoolgirls when Ma showed her guest around the house. Our neighbor laid it on thick, squealing with approval at every silly doily–ensconced trifle. They weren’t even ours, for Pete’s sake, and she’d lived across the street for years. I was willing to bet everyone in the neighborhood was elbow–deep in each other’s business. She’d probably snooped around our house a dozen times. I couldn’t hold a grudge against her, though. She put a smile on Ma’s face and brought me an intriguing gift that smelled of roses.
By half past one, all of Ma’s neighborhood ladies had arrived and were perched daintily on the living room furniture. Duncan gave me a quick kiss and bolted upstairs, happy to escape the feminine multitude while he had the chance. Jim, Fie and I claimed the kitchen, talking and trying to filch snacks off Dora Lee’s trays. For a little while we talked about everything except what was on my mind. Where were the girls?
‘Maybe the weather’s held them up.’
‘Yeah, they’re probably just a little late because of the rain. It was pretty bad in town when we started off.’ Fie made a terrible liar.