June

by Miranda Beverly-Whittemore

  “After Lem lost Mae,” Apatha finally said, in her careful drawl, “you know, he saw how people get around death and money. He didn’t want any of that nonsense mucking up his life. He loved Mae. But he felt it was private, that love. He must have told me a thousand times that the biggest mistake of his life was building that big old house just to fill it with his children. Called it his ‘monument to hubris.’ He felt he cursed Mae with that house. Cursed their love. Swore he wouldn’t put his heart on show ever again.”

  “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” Eben asked in an astonished voice. Wait—what was she saying? Lindie was behind.

  “October tenth, 1939,” Apatha said. “That’s the day I became Mrs. Lemon Gray Neely.”

  Eben gasped. Lindie had never heard him make that sound before.

  “We met in Baton Rouge in the twenties, when Lemon was living down there, overseeing his oil fields. You can imagine what it’s like down in Louisiana, a black woman, a white man. Not so different from up here in plenty of ways you don’t see, Eben. But even if I’d been white, Lemon would have wanted it to be just the two of us. I didn’t mind either way; all I wanted was him. And I got him.” Her voice warmed. “I still have him.” She answered the questions bubbling up inside Lindie before Eben could ask. “We came up to Columbus to be married. You were here that first Christmas, remember?”

  Sure he did; Lindie had heard the story a dozen times. Eben had brought red-haired Lorraine up from Columbus for the winter break. It was a cold winter, and Eben’s parents, Loftus and Ellen, old and gnarled in the way of those who’d spent their lives in service, had been caring for Two Oaks in Lemon’s absence, ever since he’d fled south—to Louisiana, Oklahoma, Texas—escaping the great home in which his young wife, Mae, had died of influenza. Two Oaks was lit up like one of Ellen’s porcelain houses set atop the upright piano. Inside Two Oaks, the fireplaces and overheads flickered with Lemon’s preferred natural gas. A twelve-foot Christmas tree stood in the parlor window, and a wreath the size of a Great Dane hung on the front door. There was new furniture, too: a davenport of lemon-colored velvet stretched across an oak frame; a great floral chair set before the roaring fire in the front parlor. A maid named Apatha offered a tray of nog and cookies, and Lemon himself stood in a red vest in the middle of the grand foyer, sealing Lindie’s father’s fate with a handshake: Eben would come home once he’d graduated to be Lemon’s personal accountant, wouldn’t he? Lemon had decided to move back to St. Jude for good.

  But now that bit of family lore was proving itself to be not quite so true.

  “I suppose Lemon believed we’d show up married and people would leave us alone. He thought St. Jude would be more accepting. But, you know, we moved in and everyone just assumed I was his maid. Your family too, Eben. Your mother was so happy to have another woman to teach how to keep up the place. And we realized it would be nearly impossible to explain to all you people all the ways that I wasn’t the maid. Not to mention it would make us stick out everywhere we went—even more than Lemon already did because of his money.”

  She stopped then, and the ticking of the clock on Lindie’s bedside table was a loud metronome before Apatha spoke again. “We just wanted to be alone. To enjoy each other. We’d started out together so late in life. We didn’t have time to dawdle. Anyway, we didn’t mind what anyone else thought, because we knew what we felt, and that was all that mattered.”

  It was more words strung together than Lindie had heard Apatha say in a whole year. Lindie lay there dumbstruck as she realized anew that Apatha and Lemon were secretly married.

  “Does Cheryl Ann know?” Eben asked.

  Apatha laughed then, truly, as though she’d never heard anything so funny in her life. “Poor thing! Doesn’t have the imagination for it!”

  Eben joined her, guffawing at Cheryl Ann’s blindness.

  “But how can you stand it?” he interjected. “She treats you terribly.”

  “She’s just sad, Eben. Whenever my blood boils, I just think about what the poor woman’s been through. How alone she was made to feel. I know Marvin was your friend, but he took her whole life away. And, I think, Lemon would want me to help her feel a little less alone.”

  “By washing up after her? Cooking for her? Apatha, you should have someone else doing all that.”

  “It’s my house. If I didn’t do things my way, she’d do them hers. And you know I couldn’t abide that.”

  Eben sighed. Apatha was not to be convinced of anything. “Oh, poor June,” he muttered then, and Lindie realized what June’s marriage really meant. Clyde was wrong—June would inherit nothing when Lemon died, because Apatha would. For the first time, Lindie had incontrovertible proof that June was being married off in vain.

  “But you know, Eben,” Apatha said, “it’s up to June whether she marries Arthur. I’ve told her more than once that Lemon will make sure to take care of her if she says no.” Lindie wondered why June had never mentioned this offer to her.

  Eben was quiet for a bit, mulling it all over.

  “But why take them in, Apatha? These are your last years with Lemon. You certainly don’t owe Cheryl Ann a thing.”

  “They’re family.”

  “Not by blood. Mae was Marvin’s aunt. And neither Mae nor Marvin is on this earth anymore.”

  “Mae was Lemon’s love, so I love her too.” Apatha’s voice was just this side of impatient. “Cheryl Ann can’t help what her husband did. She needed family, and I’ll be that for her, even if she doesn’t know that’s what I’m being.”

  “So be it,” Eben said, although Lindie could hear his aggravation; the secret lady of the house had been willingly taking Cheryl Ann’s abuse out of the kindness of her heart. Lindie could tick off hundreds of times she’d heard Cheryl Ann speak sharply to Apatha, ordering her to bring the lemonade immediately, chastising her for overcooking the roast. Lindie’s face grew hot as she realized she’d been an accomplice. They all had.

  “This was delicious,” Apatha said. Lindie heard the gentle tap of the mug upon the tabletop. She thought Apatha would say her good night, but instead she said, “All this business with Clyde—none of it has to do with Lorraine?”

  Lindie didn’t expect to hear her mother’s name in the air, and strained to hear Eben’s soft response. “Of course not, Apatha.”

  “He was wrong to pursue her, Eben, you and I both know that. But we also know she’d have left you anyway. No, I’m sorry, but it must be said. She was miserable, Eben, and it’s no one’s fault, but it’s not Clyde’s either.”

  “It’s not about that,” Eben said sharply. Lindie marveled at this revelation. Had Clyde loved her mother? Had her mother loved him back?

  “Good,” Apatha said. “Because I’m not interested in revenge plots.” Her voice carried an indulgence that warmed Lindie’s heart. She heard the old woman’s chair squeak across the floor as she pushed herself back from the table. “And I’m not one to pick a fight”—her voice turned steely—“but I don’t like what Clyde’s done any more than you do, and I agree, he should be stopped. I suppose if he thinks he can steal our land from right under our noses, he’s capable of worse. Do what you think is necessary. Whatever money you need. But…”

  “You don’t want Lemon’s name anywhere near it.”

  “He’s going to be gone soon, Eben.” And the way Apatha’s voice turned soft, Lindie knew she meant Lem, not Clyde. She loved that man dearly; Lindie could hear it. How had they mistaken love for loyalty all these years? “I don’t want him mixed up in ugliness.”

  Lindie heard Eben rise. “Your secret’s safe,” he said, although she wondered if even he could keep a secret like this. Could Lindie? For it was hers now too.

  Apatha stepped out onto the porch. Lindie tiptoed to the window. It was a dark night, the moon just a crescent of a crescent. Could she make out Apatha heading back across the lawn? Was that movement up by June’s window? Was that June Lindie saw, creeping down the column she herself had cla
mbered up so many times?

  Lindie couldn’t know for sure. She didn’t know much of anything, it seemed.

  The Two Oaks doorbell rang bright and early the next day. June had been up since yesterday; she wondered if staying up so many nights in a row had turned her nocturnal for good. She saw the Olds pull up in front of the house, then watched Thomas rush out of the car to open the back door, as if neither of the passengers’ hands worked. What she felt was irritated; why couldn’t everyone just leave her alone? It was a selfish thought, she knew, especially as the man and woman disappeared from view as they came onto the porch. She withdrew her gaze, casting her eyes accidentally over Lindie’s house, and guilt swirled inside her.

  This was what she’d meant by “too fast.” She didn’t like who she became when people wanted her to make decisions. She felt skittish. She felt mean. The doorbell rang, and she tiptoed down the upstairs hallway, making her way to just above the servant stairs. She was relieved to see no sign of her mother or Apatha, who frowned upon eavesdropping. She heard Apatha open the front door, then the sound of Jack’s low greeting and Diane’s enthusiastic “Well hello there!” June hated this jealousy, hated wondering if she looked right, hated that she ached to see him, hated knowing that seeing him with another woman, here in her home, would be a horror.

  “You sure you have the right house?” Apatha said in her dry, usual tone, which made even June smile; Apatha wasn’t impressed that famous movie stars were standing at the front door.

  They came in then, and June could hear them better. Jack was Mr. Salesman; it turned her stomach to hear him using that bombastic voice, already pitching when only one step inside. Apparently he’d had a harebrained idea and needed to talk to the household, could they trouble the powers that be for just a moment? At Idlewyld, he’d cooed like a warm ember, a purring kitten, a rushing brook, but there was none of that softness here. Apatha asked them to wait in the front parlor, and June heard her make her way up the main staircase.

  June leaned her head back into the hall and listened. Cheryl Ann was waiting in the upstairs hall; she squealed in delight when Apatha told her who’d arrived. Then she groaned in horror—“I don’t have my face on!”—and June heard the door slam to what Cheryl Ann insisted on calling her boudoir, really just the master bedroom, which she’d taken over when she decided Lemon needed to be moved to the back bedroom near Apatha’s servant quarters.

  Then June heard Apatha making her way back to the servant stairs, but the only way not to get caught was to go downstairs herself, and June couldn’t face Jack. She cringed when Apatha spotted her.

  But all Apatha said was “What do you suppose they drink in the morning? Sanka?”

  “I don’t think they came to drink anything,” June whispered, as Apatha headed past her and down the stairs.

  “Stop hiding up there,” Apatha replied sharply. “They sit on the toilet, same as you and me.” And then she was gone, into the kitchen.

  But of course June wasn’t hiding because they were famous. She was hiding because Jack was here, in June’s home, in the place she knew inside and out in detestable and precious ways—the squeak of the branch against the front parlor window, the groan of the pipes as the water turned warm. By the end of this month, Jack would know nearly every detail of June’s whole world, and she would know nothing of his. She could imagine that some girls would love that mystery, but it set her on edge. Not to mention the fact that he’d brought his known lover into her home. She heard Diane say something just then—not the words themselves, but the curl of them in the air—and that was, apparently, enough to send her rushing down the stairs, into the foyer and into the parlor, dreading the sight of Jack and Diane together.

  “Good morning to you!” Jack boomed at the sight of her. June lost her tongue. She’d forgotten how gorgeous Diane was, and Jack’s beauty, angry as she was at him, was undeniable.

  Diane smiled her plastic smile. June wondered if she knew. But there was no chance to discover more because just then Cheryl Ann burst down the stairs, flapping her hands with shock and delight, filling both parlors with her feigned deference, fawning over Jack, fanning herself, kissing Diane’s cheek with her sweaty lips. The small spit of skin between Diane’s eyes wrinkled in concern. Then came Apatha with a tray of biscuits that they all knew none of them would touch.

  “We want to host a party,” Jack announced.

  Diane leaned one shoulder into her smile. “We’d like to do it here.”

  “On Saturday, I’m afraid.” Mr. Salesman smiled in false concern, and June resisted the urge to kick him in the shin.

  Cheryl Ann clapped her hands together and wheezed. It was like a vaudeville act.

  Before Apatha could open her mouth to object, Jack said, “I’ll pay for everything.” Diane shot him a significant look, and he corrected himself. “We’ll pay. You won’t lift a finger.”

  Diane clearly felt he was taking the wrong tack. “You see, we want to show St. Jude how much we appreciate everything you’ve done to welcome us. And we can’t think of a better place to hold the celebration. Why not choose the most magnificent building in town?”

  Cheryl Ann looked as if she might explode.

  “And since we’ll be wrapping up the shoot next Thursday,” Jack added, “we’ll be going back to Los Angeles by the holiday weekend.” June felt his eyes skim over her as he mentioned leaving. Then he held out his hands as if he’d done a magic trick. “I’m afraid the only option is to have the festivities in a few short days.”

  One look at Apatha told June the old woman believed there were, in fact, many other options. But Apatha listened patiently as Jack and Diane detailed their plans of musical acts and tents for the yards. It seemed a banquet caterer had already been contacted, and waitstaff would be brought in from elsewhere.

  Jack fingered his gray felt hat. It was hard not to notice the way Diane’s gaze drank him in and swatted him away at the same time. June felt sick at the thought of a party here, hosted by them. She could hardly believe that this very man, right here in this room, had knelt before her only three days ago and told her he wanted her. She had said as good as no, and it had been the right choice—had it not?—because here he was with another woman. How quickly he had moved on.

  “It’s settled then,” Cheryl Ann said, without consulting Apatha or June on the matter, and there were handshakes all around, which June made sure to avoid by picking up a biscuit. Artie, she thought (and the thought was like a breath of fresh air), Artie is uncomplicated and he would never do this to me, and the idea warmed her as she watched Apatha let them out.

  —

  On set by nine, Jack winked at Lindie. He was still in his street clothes. “I made her jealous.” He cocked his head and pulled a cigarette from behind his ear. “That should do the trick.”

  As soon as the St. Jude Caller announced the party the next morning—YOUR INVITATION, the headline read in scripted letters, TO THE NIGHT OF A THOUSAND STARS—it was the talk of the town. The St. Judians had only three days to dust off their proverbial ball gowns (none of them had actual ones), polish their shoes, and set their hair. No surprise that the movie stars who’d transformed their humble town into a Hollywood set had been able to convince crusty, crazy old Lemon Gray Neely to open his doors.

  That morning, Jack had a cleaning crew up from Columbus. If Lindie hadn’t been P.A.’ing, she’d have volunteered herself, for the chance to see June. When they wrapped for the day, she raced home, eager to glimpse what was reportedly a grand operation in the last bit of waning light—gardeners, a phalanx of maids, and a dozen men pitching a tent the size of the gymnasium in the side yard. Cheryl Ann was pacing the property like an officer would his fort, Two Oaks lit up behind her. Lindie leaned back on her front porch, hands behind her head, and beamed her best smile; there was no law against sitting out, enjoying a beautiful evening.

  Did June see Lindie? Did she watch her from her window? What was she thinking and feeling in there, about Jack, a
bout the party? Had Jack successfully made her jealous? What would making her jealous actually accomplish? And was it just Lindie’s imagination, or was her Schwinn parked in a slightly different spot—front wheel askew—from where she’d left it the day before? Could it be that June was sneaking out to Idlewyld—or elsewhere—alone? These questions were Lindie’s torment and reality. Despite all this turmoil, she could admit that, in one respect, June’s distance was good: it made the secret of Apatha’s marriage to Uncle Lem easy to keep.

  —

  On Friday, they erected a second big tent, this one in the backyard. Lemon was spotted on his porch that afternoon, taking a lemonade in his wheelchair, and those who saw him agreed that he didn’t look quite as close to death as they’d imagined him to be. That night, after another long day of shooting, Lindie watched June’s window from her own, listening to an owl’s lonely call from one of the branches somewhere on the Two Oaks lawn, until her eyelids cried to be given sleep.

  She awoke Saturday at dawn to the clattering arrival of the trucks with the flowers, tables, and food. A crowd had already gathered to watch the preparations. The St. Judians were awed to witness this long-dormant home finally waking up, whipped into shape like something touched by the wand of Cinderella’s fairy godmother.

  But on set that morning, the mood was decidedly less jovial. There were only five budgeted days left; they’d have to breeze through every single scene in order to finish shooting in the time allotted. Nervous they wouldn’t get back to Los Angeles by the holiday weekend, most of the crew blamed Diane. It was no secret, by now, that she couldn’t memorize her way out of a paper bag. That wouldn’t have really mattered as long as she’d been able to cry on command, or seduce the camera with a sultry gaze. Plus she wasn’t especially friendly, and never said “thank you,” or laughed at any of her (numerous) gaffes. Gone was any memory that the shoot had been delayed because they’d lost the original canal location; now the story had it all falling on Diane’s shoulders. Unless she made serious changes, no one would want to work with her again, or at least that’s what Ricky said.