Little Sacrifices

by Scott, Jamie

  She nodded. ‘Well, now that stands to reason. She lived next door, didn’t she? Yes that does make sense.’

  ‘Now Missus Robinson please don’t tell anyone about this okay? It’s a secret.’

  ‘For goodness sake, it’s no secret when you’ve just told me all about it.’ She patted my knee. ‘There’s nothing to worry about, these old women hardly remember what day it is. It wouldn’t matter if I told everyone in here.’ She smiled. ‘Watch, I’ll show you. Missus Crane? Missus Crane!’

  A wrinkled old relic shifted her gaze slowly from middle distance to my companion. ‘Yes, dear?’

  ‘Missus Crane, I wondered if you enjoyed your breakfast this morning?’

  ‘Oh, yes, thank you. I always do. James makes the most sublime soufflés for me.’

  Missus Robinson turned to me. ‘James is her husband. He’s been dead since World War I.’

  I got her point. ‘What about Jim? Was there hearsay about him too?’

  ‘Well, of course! She was just a child, Clare’s... Mirabelle’s girl I mean. When she disappeared everyone thought she was dead. It caused a ruckus for weeks. They organized a manhunt in the swamps looking for her. She’s in Atlanta still? That’s terrible selfish. Not to be with her own son. Though I suppose she has her reasons.’

  ‘Do you think Jim knows about Mirabelle? Who his grandmother really is?’

  ‘Well, how should I know? Why don’t you ask him?’

  ‘He didn’t approve of my nosing through Mirabelle’s things.’

  ‘I don’t blame him.’

  ‘And anyway, I don’t want him to think badly of me.’

  ‘Tarnation, May. I’m sorry to break the news to you, but snooping isn’t a very flattering profession.’

  Nor was sarcasm becoming for such an old woman, I thought.

  A couple days later, Jim and I walked together through Forsyth Park, with our lunch banging wicker prints into my knees. The azaleas were blooming, the tulips and daffodils already past their prime. Before we moved, I thought of the South as a place without seasons. Constant sunshine is often deceiving to outsiders. But the seasons are there, and spring is my favorite. It’s the time when peachy–breasted bluebirds dot the landscape and dandelions carpet the grass. Love bugs are thick in the air pursuing their amorous pastime. Just as in the north where anxious squirrels portend autumn long before the leaves change, you have to know what you’re looking for in the South or you’ll miss it.

  Ma took her domestic duties seriously when I asked her to pack us a picnic. She wrapped each edible item in enough waxed paper to protect it from the Great Flood, should it overtake us on the way to the park. She even hid some cupcakes in the bottom of the basket, in honor of Jim’s upcoming birthday. Being all for ceremony, I saved them for last. We slapped at mosquitoes and talked easily, until I worked up the nerve to tell him that I’d found more letters, and that some were from his mom. He looked away.

  ‘What did they say?’

  ‘Uh, lots of things. Jim, how much do you know? About Mirabelle and your Nan. Or Julius? Your mother?’

  ‘I told you everything I know.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Uh huh.’

  ‘Because there’s a lot more.’ I didn’t know how to continue. Jim must have been thinking about whether he wanted me to.

  ‘Then tell me.’

  I did. We sat for the rest of the afternoon and into dusk, talking about Jim’s past. He took it all pretty well, considering everything. He didn’t get mad or cry, then. He was curious, as he always was about history. I told him everything I knew, as honestly as I knew how. The only part I put a coat of paint on was Cecile’s interest in him. There wasn’t any reason to be hurtful. He’d see it soon enough if he read Mirabelle’s diaries for himself.

  ‘Jim, there’s something else.’ He looked so punch drunk that I began to regret opening my mouth. What had kept for decades surely needn’t be told all at once. But he wanted it all. So I continued.

  Julius hanged himself in the garage one Sunday morning while Jim’s Nan and Aunt Belle were at church. He didn’t have the courtesy to leave a note, so everyone was left to ponder their own theories. Nan fell to pieces and emerged with the idea that Julius was a saint. Mirabelle was much more practical. He’d taken the easy way out, she thought. He was a coward.

  Mirabelle was near the end of her life before she learned what drove Julius to the garage that day. Cecile finally told her, for she had known all along.

  He started bothering her not long after he lost his job. He said he was sad and wanted a cuddle. He told her to be a good daughter and do what he said. She did what he said for a year. After she was pregnant he stayed out of her drawers, but he never got out of her head.

  I watched my friend for a long time after I’d finished. He picked blades of grass, tearing each into tiny pieces and throwing them into the slight breeze. ‘Was I right to tell you, Jim? Should I have kept quiet?’

  ‘You shouldn’t have read the letters in the first place,’ he said wearily. ‘I wish you’d just left everything alone.’

  ‘I know, me too. I’m so sorry Jim. I should have. But I had no idea that you, your family, were involved. I promise I’d have left it alone if I’d known... What are you going to do now?’

  ‘I have to talk to my mom.’

  ‘What about your Nan?’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘Do you think she knows ... everything?’

  ‘She must. Otherwise they wouldn’t have fought in the first place.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you talk to her about it?’

  ‘To my Nan?’ Coldness pounded his voice hard. ‘No, I don’t think so. She’s the cause of all this in the first place. She should have told me about Aunt Belle. She was my real grandmother.’

  I put my hand on his leg. ‘Jim. I’m sure she was just trying to protect you and your mom.’

  ‘From what, the truth? How is that protecting us?’

  He didn’t expect an answer. I didn’t have one anyway.

  ‘Are you coming with me or not?’ he asked.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘To Atlanta.’

  ‘Jim. You can’t just go off to Atlanta. You don’t even know where your mother is.’

  ‘No, but you do.’

  ‘I do not. I–’ But I did. She was at her cousin’s. And that address was on Cecile’s letters to Mirabelle. ‘Okay. When do you want to go?’

  ‘Now.’

  ‘We can’t go now. We have to have a plan.’

  Atlanta was a good four hours away from Savannah by train, and our absence wouldn’t go unnoticed. We needed an alibi. To our surprise, we found one in Fie. I had to hand it to her. She wasn’t the least bit deceitful for her own sake, but she hatched a whopper of a story to cover for us.

  ‘You’re coming out to Isle of Hope, to my cousin’s house, with me next weekend.’

  ‘We are?’

  ‘That’s what your parents’ll think. We’ll tell them we’re going early for fishing.’

  Fie really did have cousins on Isle of Hope. It was a ninety acre peninsula about half an hour away, that Savannahians had used for two hundred years to escape the city’s heat and mosquitoes. I was a little disappointed that our holiday was only a ruse.

  My parents said it was fine to go, but Jim’s Nan didn’t want him out of her sight, especially in my company.

  ‘What’re you going to do?’ I asked when he told me.

  ‘I’m going anyway. Nan’ll think I’ve gone with you to Fie’s. I’ll get in less trouble if she thinks I’m there than if she knows I’ve gone to Atlanta.’ He seemed awfully nonchalant about certain punishment. He shrugged. ‘What difference does it make if I’m grounded? It’s not like I’m missing much.’ As the focal point of Jim’s social life I was a little miffed, but I had to admit he was right.

  It didn’t take long to realize that the devil’s in the details. What seemed like a watertight plan soon sprang a rather large leak. We couldn�
�t walk to Union Station when we were supposed to be going to Fie’s. She lived a good twenty blocks away and Duncan would never buy the idea that I was walking that far by choice. They’d expect her parents to pick us up.

  The lie hardly stuck in my throat. ‘Bye, Ma, see you Duncan. I’m going over to Jim’s to wait. Fie’s Dad’ll pick us up there.’

  Duncan was intent upon the coffee pot. Ma smiled and hugged me. ‘Okay honey, have fun. And mind your manners. Be sure you make your bed and keep your room tidy.’

  ‘Ma, I know how to behave in other people’s houses.’

  ‘And don’t forget to say thank you.’

  I waved over my shoulder. ‘Okay, gotta go. ‘Bye!’ I jumped down the stairs two at a time and trotted to Jim’s porch, casually dumping my little bag on the steps. Jim met me at the door.

  I whispered, ‘Ready?’

  ‘Uh huh. My bag’s around the corner. We’ll have to stop for it on the way.’

  ‘Is your Nan awake?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ I hoped it stayed that way. Ours was a remarkable endeavor with enough moving parts to almost guarantee we’d be caught. I counted on the fact that it was Jim’s idea to keep my parents from killing me when they found out.

  We made a quiet dash as the car pulled along the curb. I held my breath, saying a little prayer that my parents weren’t watching closely.

  ‘Hi, Fie.’ I beamed, sliding in beside her and making room for Jim. She looked too small behind the wheel, and was concentrating furiously. ‘Ready?’

  She managed to ease the big Ford back into the road. ‘How did it go?’

  ‘Um, okay. There’s not a lot of traffic, so it was okay.’ She didn’t smile.

  ‘I can’t believe we’re doing this. You’re driving! When did you learn?’

  ‘This morning. On the way here.’ She wasn’t kidding. I wished she’d mentioned that when she volunteered to swipe her dad’s keys. We might have considered our alternatives. Her acceleration and braking weren’t so much steady as enthusiastic. I kept an eye out for policemen.

  Though I’d never had occasion to step into Union Station, its imposing yellow brick façade and squat towers often caught my eye from the curbside. There really was some remarkable architecture in town, though the station, like many other gems, would be torn down to make way for progress. It was poetic justice in a way, since a notorious slum called Frogtown had been cleared to make way for the station in the first place. History swings in roundabouts. We thanked a shaky Fie and urged her to hurry back to her house before her parents noticed the car missing. She waved as she pulled away, a little more confidently it seemed.

  Inside, our heels clicked on marble floors crisscrossed by sunlight pouring through the gazebo skylights. All around the main rotunda, clerks in green visors calmly served their overwrought customers. The shoe shine boy parked his high chair strategically near one of the ticket booths, to pick off the few passengers with time to kill. Between all the people rushing to their trains and the red–capped luggage handlers maneuvering overloaded trolleys, the scene was chaotic and noisy.

  ‘Are there different lines for different trains?’ We didn’t have time for mistakes.

  ‘How should I know?’ Jim snapped. ‘Come on.’ We took our place behind a businessman who looked like he knew a thing or two about train travel.

  ‘Excuse me, mister? Can you tell us if we’re in the right line for the Nancy Hanks? To Atlanta? It leaves at eight.’

  ‘The Nancy Hanks? You’re in the wrong place, son. You need the Central of Georgia Station.’

  ‘Not here?’ I felt panic breaking out along with the sweat on my lip.

  ‘Naw, but it’s just up the road. Better hurry, though.’

  We ran all the way to the squat red brick building. Inside was almost as crowded as Union Station. There were at least ten people in each line. ‘Can’t we buy tickets on the train?’ I asked between gasps.

  ‘May, how should I know? Do you think I’ve done this before?’ The big clock over the door ticked down to eight a.m. We could do nothing but hope the people in front of us were quick. Luckily, they were equally anxious to make the train, so we got our tickets with a few minutes to spare. We ran to the whites–only carriages, while our black traveling companions jostled through the coloreds–only doors. As we passed them, my belly noted that they were well–stocked for the ride. Greasy bags and steaming parcels emanated intriguing smells to remind me I was starving. ‘Do you think there’s food on here?’ I asked Jim, who merely grunted. He looked peculiar. I knew his crabbiness had nothing to do with the tickets, the train, or its passengers. To pursue an answer that can’t be unlearned, and to know it, must have been terrifying. As long as Cecile was held at arm’s length, Jim was free to think whatever he wanted about her, to make her as loving as he wished. His Aunt Belle encouraged that idea while she lived. I could only imagine how much Jim built on her tales over the years, and how devastating it would be if his mother failed to live up to them. I felt bad about keeping the truth of Mirabelle’s diary from my friend. Maybe it was better to meet her with his eyes open. On the other hand, she could be everything he imagined, and more. In which case, sabotaging his ideals would be unnecessarily cruel. So, in fact, I was doing Jim a favor by not telling him. How lucky for my conscience that I was able to argue my position so effectively.

  The train was a miracle of modern technology. Gleaming blue and gray carriages were streamlined to whisk us to the capital and even back on the same day, should we be so inclined. Its predecessor started running in the previous century, named the Nancy Hanks after a fleet–footed mare that held the world mile trotting record. Unfortunately, in eighteen ninety–three, several carriages trotted off the track and the service was cancelled. It had only been running again for a year when we boarded. Most of the passengers were women, intent on enjoying a day trip to the locally famous Rich’s Department Store. Across the aisle, a mother and daughter pored over a fashion magazine, marveling at their prospects for wardrobe improvement. Watching them giggle over some shared joke made me weepy. I cursed myself for the umpteenth time. My condition was having unexpected consequences that made my body alien to me, like the morning sickness that refused to abide by its name’s conventions, and body parts that swelled to astonishing proportions. I was three months pregnant that weekend. I’d only be so for a few more days. Dora Lee reluctantly came through with the name of a midwife who agreed to help out my unfortunate friend, who was terrified at the prospect.

  We reached Terminal Station just before one. All manner of traveler, from inexperienced to inveterate, clutched their satchels and looked around with varying degrees of doubt. Jim, who’d written his mother to warn her of our arrival, searched in vain for family members. It didn’t bode particularly well. ‘Jim? If we need to, we can go back tonight, on the six o’clock, right?’

  ‘Why would we need to?’

  ‘I, I don’t know. If you want to, I mean.’

  ‘May, just because she’s not here doesn’t mean anything. Most likely she didn’t get my letter. I only sent it a couple days ago.’

  ‘Right, it can take a while.’ But I knew how long the postal service took to deliver a letter all the way from Savannah to Massachusetts.

  Outside, I nearly jumped out of my skin when a wino heaved into me, knocking my bag off my shoulder. Jim stepped protectively towards the man, who waved us away like a couple of bothersome flies. The terminal wasn’t in a bad neighborhood so much as a desolate one. It was hemmed in by the train yard to one side, loading bays to the other and ribbons of track at the back. At the newsagent’s, we bought a city map, and realized that the house was too far away to walk, leaving us no choice but to hail a taxicab through the door assigned to our race.

  As far as I was concerned, the city lacked Savannah’s easy charm. It was leafy, with houses built in the grand tradition, but any allure it might have mustered drained away down its streets. Instead of winding themselves comfortably around squares the
y snaked off to the horizon, reducing everywhere to just places along the way. Maybe, I reasoned, they just liked to drive more than we did. It certainly appeared so, judging by the number of cars. The city’s love affair with Henry Ford was everywhere apparent, forcing most pedestrians to the road’s fringes. Everyone hurried like they had somewhere more important to be.

  I was glad we didn’t live there. Quite aside from my current impression, I didn’t think much of its origins. Jim told me that a hundred years earlier the Army rounded up all the Cherokee who’d had claim to the land and marched them a thousand miles to reservations in Oklahoma. The only thing left of them is their name in the state flower, and the legacy of the Trail of Tears. It was hardly a fair trade.

  When we finally reached the Inman Park address, a strong sense of nostalgia overcame me. Mirabelle went there to have Henry’s baby. I was looking at history. Jim, I feared, was looking at his future. The house was grand, though much like Savannah’s squares, the area was falling to pieces. Derelict old places stood on either side of the stately Victorian home, their paint peeling and windows boarded. Many of the houses were subdivided into tenements. Somewhere along the years an extremely unhandy tenant had turned the verandah on the house next door into an enclosed porch. Old bits of board were nailed to the railings like jagged teeth in an untended mouth. It was a very sad end to what was once a proud neighborhood. I couldn’t help but think of Jim’s family in the same way.

  As he rang the bell I asked him about the last time he saw his mom.

  ‘I don’t remember ever seeing her,’ he whispered as the door opened.

  A girl about our age looked at us. ‘Are you Jim?’

  Jim said he was, introduced me, and we were let in.

  ‘I’m your cousin, Anne. Nicetameetcha.’

  I had no trouble recognizing Cecile. She looked just like the old photos of Mirabelle. She didn’t say anything, didn’t move. Anne was at my elbow. ‘Why don’t we go into the kitchen, May? I bet you’re dying for something to drink.’ I was dying to get out of the tense living room, anyway.