Beanie asks Carson if he’d like a slice of pie. She holds the pie out for him to see; three-quarters of it has already been consumed by Dovie’s tenants.
Carson sits across from me, his long legs slipping under the table. He thanks Beanie for her offer but says he and a friend shared a pizza at the station and so he’s too full to eat anything else now.
Right then I know that something is wrong, and the juices in my stomach start to sour. I push the plate of pie away and sip from a glass of ice water.
“Where’d you get the pizza?” asks Beanie.
“Mario’s.”
“Did you get their marinara sauce to dip the crusts in?”
“Yeah. That’s the best part.”
The two chatter on about the pizza place and someone they both know who used to work there. Finally, Carson looks back at me and smiles. “Going to finish your pie?”
“No, why?”
“Just wondering if you’re ready to go.”
I sip my water. Coolly, I ask, “Go where?”
“How about a walk?”
Carson knows I love going on walks, but tonight I want to decline. If he knew that I gave up a perfectly good guy because I love him, what would he say? Part of me is afraid he’d laugh and say, “Sam, why’d you do that?”
“It’s not bad out there. Nice night.” He takes my hand.
I search my mind for an excuse. Maybe I have to help Dovie with the butterflies or chickens. But Dovie’s in the den, still watching the movie. The truth is, neither the butterflies nor chickens need me.
Beanie clears my dishes. “Go on and walk. You’ve been driving all day,” she tells me as she loads the dishwasher. Then she winks at me and I feel embarrassed by her gesture; I’m sure Carson saw it.
Minutes later, Carson and I walk along the sidewalk in front of Dovie’s neighborhood. The air is tolerable with little humidity. Carson was right; the night is a nice one, the stars popping out against a charcoal sky. I search for the moon and see a sliver of light masked behind a violet cloud.
I plan to walk to the end of the block and then tell Carson I’m tired and need to go back to Dovie’s. I know I’m being childish, but there are times when that is all I know how to be. Our inner child never leaves us, a sociology professor once told our freshman class. How right he was.
When Carson asks how things are going and if Taylor has made any progress on the search for Lien’s mother, I stop walking. He stops too. I feel the irritation that was choking my heart disappear. Excitement now replaces it. I’m eager to release the news. Finally, I get to share something about Lien’s family before Carson knows anything about it.
Carson eyes me. “So, what have you got?”
“I know where she is.”
“You do?”
“A woman came into the shop and recognized Lien’s mom from the picture in the flyer.”
“And?”
“She knows her. She knows where she lives!”
As Carson grins, I think to myself that I will never forget the relief on his face. Then I add in the missing pieces to the story of that afternoon. Of course, my enthusiasm wanes as I say, “I’m not sure if this woman will get back in touch with me, though.”
I try to cheer myself with the message I’ve been mentally repeating over the week. Wouldn’t any mother want to be reunited with her child?
Continuing our walk, Carson says, “Too bad she didn’t leave her number. Did she write yours down?”
“No. She was a bit distant. But she did take the flyer I gave her.”
We turn left and walk past a house with two gnome lawn ornaments.
Carson says, “She could be upset.”
“Who?”
“Lien’s mom. The woman who wants to be called Sophia now.”
“Upset about what?”
“Remember I told you that Lien had a chance to see her mom years ago, but she refused?”
“I know, but that was then. That shouldn’t play a part now, should it?”
Carson’s arm brushes against mine as I try to ignore the electricity I feel between us. I move to the left, onto the curb, to create a wider space so that our arms won’t touch. I tell myself that I should go back to Dovie’s and sit in her air-conditioned den and forget Carson. I want to be old like Pearl, crochet baby booties, make pies, and not have a romantic bone in my body so that I won’t desire moonlit walks and dinners for two.
Carson watches as I balance along the narrow curb. Then he says, “Thuy found out that Minh and the family were able to leave for America under the Orderly Departure Program, their first stop being the processing center in Bataan. She came from her village to say good-bye. Lien didn’t want to see her. Lien called her horrible names, just like everyone else had done because Thuy had a half-breed daughter.” Carson pauses and then says softly, “It hurt Thuy badly, I’m sure.”
I see a vehement Lien, behavior like she exhibited in the classroom when teased about her freckles or the unusual color of her hair. And I can imagine her being nasty to her mother. “She’s different now,” I breathe. “She can only be kind.”
To avoid the spray of a sprinkler watering an ample lawn, Carson and I move to the center of the street.
“Should we tell Lien about the woman who came into the shop who knows Thuy?”
After a moment, he says, “Let’s wait and not get Lien’s hopes up.”
Based on his logic, I agree. Lien doesn’t need to know yet.
“Are there more secrets?” I ask, after a neighbor calms a yelping dog in her backyard.
“No. You know everything now.”
“Except for what’s going on inside your heart,” I say lightly, although once I say it, it costs me. I feel immediate pain surge under my rib cage. I cannot bear that I’ve given him room to trample on my heart once again.
“You could know that, Sam. All you have to do is ask.” His tone is mellow, and he places his hand on my shoulder.
I’m still not sure if he thinks of me as a potential girlfriend or as a sister.
As we circle around the neighborhood toward Aunt Dovie’s house, streetlights flicker on around us, casting shadows on the pavement. Carson says, “She wasn’t who I thought she was.”
“Lien?”
“No, Mindy.”
Slowing my stride, I prepare to hear about this past girlfriend. Although I don’t want to appear too eager, I certainly don’t want Carson to think that I haven’t wanted him to talk about their relationship.
A sigh leaves his chest. “She wasn’t at all interested in what I wanted. I guess she was jealous.”
“Jealous?” I see her picture in my mind, that glossy print that seemed to threaten me whenever I entered Carson’s room. Now I want him to say that Mindy was jealous of me and all the time he and I spent together. That he confessed to her in letters that he was really not in love with her, but in love with me. My thoughts leap all over themselves but are suddenly interrupted.
“Jealous that I got to experience Asia. She’s never been out of the South.”
Oh. “That’s crazy. You said her family was wealthy. She could have traveled.”
“I don’t want to talk about her.”
I’m unable to stifle a snort. “But you brought her up.”
“I shouldn’t have.”
“I’ve always wanted to know what happened between the two of you. Why can’t you tell me?”
“Let’s not talk about her.”
Fed up, I blurt, “Keep your secrets, Carson. I’m getting so tired of all this mystery.” I consider leaving him alone under the streetlight, reconsider, and stop. “You know, if I want a mystery, I’ll read my Busboy books. The rest of my life should not be one puzzle after another.”
Carson clenches his jaw. His neck muscles tighten.
I start to walk, tiny steps that morph into larger glides. I can see the edge of Dovie’s house and the azalea bushes that line her driveway. I will go inside her home and go to bed. And as I let sleep consume me
, I’ll ask God to remove my feelings for Carson.
“Sam, look, I don’t want to let anything get between us. I really want us to be friends.” He rushes to catch up to me.
Friends?
I’m at Dovie’s now, and I make my way down her dimly lit driveway. Over my shoulder I say, “We are friends, Carson. Nothing ever changes.” I curve around his car toward Dovie’s front door. I look to see if anyone is seated on the porch, but not even Milkweed occupies a space there tonight.
As I grab the doorknob, ready to yank the front door open and go inside, away from Carson forever, he is behind me. His hands embrace my waist.
“Sam.” I feel his breath on my neck.
I tighten my grip on the knob.
“Do you know how much I care about you?”
I take a breath. “I think you’ve let me know that we are friends.”
He spins me gently to face him as I release my fingers from the door. His lips touch my nose as his arm cradles my shoulders. “I’m no good at this. I want to say so much to you.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t want to lose you again.”
Something tells me I should push him away and run inside, bolting the door behind me. Something else tells me to lift my lips to his. Tonight, the something else wins.
After all, the urge to kiss Carson has never left, even after all these years.
forty
Something’s wrong. The minute we enter Dovie’s hallway, I sense it, like the suffocating feeling you get from the clamminess after a summer rain. For one thing, the TV is off and no radio station is playing. It’s only ten twenty, too early for everyone to be asleep.
Dovie appears in the hallway, Milkweed at her feet. She’s carrying a glass filled with ice cubes and water. Her face is drained of its usual rosy color. When she sees us, she stops and says, “It’s Beanie.”
Fear rises in my mouth. I turn to Carson.
As he takes my hand, he and I follow my aunt upstairs to Beanie’s bedroom. Inside, a solitary lamp casts light upon the twin bed where Beanie lies. Her eyes are closed and I realize I never knew she had such dark and long eyelashes. Her quilt tucks her in, pulled up to her chin. Pearl is seated on a chair, and Little is hovering near Beanie’s feet.
“What happened?” I ask after I see Beanie’s chest rising with breath and catch my own.
“She had a seizure and fell,” says Dovie, her voice barely audible.
“She went up to her room to listen to the radio.” Little explains in her slow manner as I see the lump on Beanie’s forehead. “We heard a thud and rushed up here.”
“What did she hit?” asks Carson.
“The footboard,” says Dovie, her hand gripping the edge of it. She places the glass of water on the bedside table next to Beanie’s radio and then sits on the bed. Reaching under the quilt, she lifts out Beanie’s hand and holds it, her fingers laced with her friend’s. “Now, Beanie, I know you can hear me.”
There is no response from Beanie. She appears to be oblivious to our commotion.
“Who moved her into her bed?” I ask.
“A joint effort. I never realized how many muscles it takes to carry a body.” Pearl wheezes and then places a plump arm against her own chest.
“Do we need to call someone?”
Quizzically, they all look at me.
“I mean, does she need a doctor to help her?”
Dovie says, “We know what to do. We know how to care for her. The first time this happened, I did call an ambulance and I don’t think that Beanie ever forgave me.” My aunt strokes Beanie’s motionless hand.
“Does she usually take this long to come back to herself after a seizure?” I whisper.
“She was talking a moment or so ago.”
“Really?” I scan their faces and add, “That’s good, right?”
When Dovie nods, I ask, “What was she saying?”
Little and Pearl giggle.
Pearl says, “She said, ‘Get that thing off of me.’ ”
“We put an ice pack on her forehead and she was livid.” Dovie brushes the woman’s hair from her face as she speaks.
“I heard language I hadn’t heard since my husband died,” Pearl says with a smile.
I’m not ready to laugh or smile. “So she’s going to be okay?”
“Yes,” says Dovie. “Beanie always is.”
Carson leaves the room shortly after Beanie opens her eyes and cries, “What is going on? Why are you all here?”
We all laugh then, too loudly, but I guess it’s because we’re so relieved.
In the hallway, Carson draws me to him. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he breathes into my ear and then kisses me. I feel that I could just stand here being kissed all night, sheltered in his arms.
After getting a drink of water, I find Beanie’s potion to cure ailments, the one she used on Pearl’s arthritic joints. Remembering how she said it helped with bruises, I take it upstairs.
In Beanie’s room, Dovie is the only one left. Seated on the bed, her eyes are closed, her head bowed toward Beanie’s. I know she’s praying.
I stand by the open door with the bottle until Dovie raises her head, indicating that her prayers have finished.
Beanie’s eyes flicker. Seeing the bottle in my hand, she says, “Good girl.”
I trade places with Dovie and open the lid to the herbal lotion. Tipping the contents onto my fingertips, I use my other hand to carefully set the bottle on the bedside table. With my index finger I smooth the concoction onto Beanie’s forehead. I feel the bump and see the colors of a bruise forming. “Does it hurt?” I ask as the fragrance of oranges and ginger rises to my nostrils.
“Like fire. But I know the ointment will help, so keep going.” Her voice is raspy and strained.
I motion for her to stop talking. I add some more of the potion, smoothing it out along her hairline, amazed at how soft her skin is. I suppose I thought that after the life Beanie has led, her skin would be rough and callused. A dollop of the white balm runs near her crooked left eyebrow. I rub it into her temple. “Feel better yet?”
She sighs. “Makes you tired, those seizures. I’m too old to have to put up with them.”
“You’re not old,” I say. I suddenly realize that I’ve never been this close to Beanie before since I know she doesn’t accept hugs and silly sentimental displays of affection. Beanie likes to appear tough, yet when she’s sick, she’s just as vulnerable and dependent as the next person.
At one fifteen, when Dovie leaves to get ready for bed, Beanie shifts to sit up and take a sip from the glass of water. Then she slowly eases down onto her mattress, her head against the cotton pillow. “Promise me, Sammie Girl.”
“What?”
“When I go, you take care of your aunt.”
“Where are you going? You’re not going anywhere.”
She coughs. “Dovie needs to be told how entertaining her butterfly stories are. She needs to know that we are fascinated with those specks that dart all over creation.”
When her eyes flutter and then shut, I wonder if she’s going to sleep. After a brief respite she says, “Don’t waste time with the bitty things of life, Sam.”
“What do you mean?”
She finds my hand and squeezes it. “When you find what you want, don’t ever let go.”
Wondering where she is going with these thoughts, hesitantly I say, “All right.”
“I chased after the wrong bottles—the kind that have Johnnie Walker on the label. That led me to the wrong men, which led me to . . .” Her voice trails off, perhaps lost in memory. Lines of anguish are imprinted on her face.
I seal the bottle of lotion and place it on the table. “Tell me about your son.”
At first I think she won’t, but after a moment her mouth opens. “He got into a mess. But he’s gonna be okay.”
“When does he get out of jail?”
“In about nine months. He’s a handsome boy. Takes up after me. The day he was
born, I couldn’t believe that I could love someone so much.” Releasing my hand, she says, “Ah, look at me.” She says no more, as though embarrassed at being sentimental.
Feeling my throat start to weld, I look away from her at her shelf of colorful candles, all of them created by her from a kit she bought after going to some home party that charged too much for candles. I recall the day she said, “I can make these myself and not spend all that money.” Then, with great excitement, she showed us how to make the candles, dipping the wick into the hot wax so many times my head grew dizzy. She let me try my hand at it, and the slender form I made looked like the tail of a muskrat.
“Not to worry,” she encouraged me. “Art has no boundaries, just like love. If it’s in the heart, you can claim it.”
We had to hold the formations until they dried, and then she placed them in brass holders that Dovie purchased at a yard sale.
She’s watching me, her eyes now open. “When I go, you can have those.”
Turning from the shelf, I look into her dark eyes. “You’re not going anywhere, Beanie.”
She yawns. “You may leave now, Sammie Girl.”
“No, I’ll sit here a little while longer.”
“I’ll be here tomorrow.” She yawns again. “And the next day. And the next. Not sure about the day after that one, though.” Amused with herself, she lets a smile break over her lips. I watch it fade as sleep takes over.
I head to the basement, to the lumpy bed there, even though I know there are only a few hours until I’ll need to wake to get ready for church. The drip of the faucet puts me into a deep sleep.
In my dream, Beanie is standing in a field of sunflowers, and as Dovie’s butterflies leave their cage for a world of freedom, Beanie says, “Don’t judge me. Just love me.” She says it over and over so that when I wake, I am ready to love and not judge.
I check in on Beanie, thinking she’ll be amused by the dream. She’s asleep. “Beanie,” I say, “I dreamed of you last night. It was like a broken record.”
She continues to sleep.
“You kept saying ‘Don’t judge me. Just love me.’ ”
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