by Julie Kibler
“Don’t tell me what I feel. I did miss you. Horribly, the last fifteen days. I counted. I thought I would fade to nothing before I saw you again.”
He turned and I detected a gleam in his eyes at my drama, but when he saw my sober face—I meant every word—the amusement fell away. “Okay, then,” he said. “I admit it, I missed you, too. I hear you. I understand it. But, Isa, I asked you then, what can we do about it? Nothing. You know it. I know it. We’re like that concrete there. Mix you and me together, and we make something too hard to work with in the wrong place. This here”—he gestured around him, indicating more than the street in front of my house, his hand encompassing the town, maybe even the whole world—“is the wrong place. It’s flat illegal. We’d be crazy to even consider it.”
“It’s too late. We’ve already considered it. It’s a good thing, Robert. You know it is.”
“You might think I’m being mean and ugly here, but, Isabelle, you’ve got to leave me alone.” He’d returned to his work, but he stopped again now and looked me full in the face. “You want to get me killed?”
I trembled. He spoke the truth.
His rejection had already rubbed me raw, torn me open—even if it was a rejection of what could be and not what we both felt. The truth blistered my heart.
My eyes filled, and he turned away fast, but not before I felt the full force of his own emotion and reaction to my sadness slam back into me. I gripped the empty glass, though my handkerchief slipped loose and fluttered to the ground as I turned away. When I paused to retrieve my glass from the stoop, I saw him bend to pick up the delicate fabric, and he raised it toward me. I shook my head and he dropped his hand, then lifted the hankie again and pressed it into the pocket sewn against his heart.
Inside, I nearly plowed through Nell, who stood frozen by the door, her face stricken. I knew she’d witnessed what she could see from there. The last, important part. She bowed her head as I pushed past. I crashed the glasses down on the kitchen counter, neither bothering to empty mine nor wipe up the sticky mess I created as lemonade splashed over its rim. Cora was nowhere around now. I ran past Nell again and up the stairs to my room, where I threw myself on my bed, my face pressed hard into my pillow. But anyone in the hallway might still have heard my angry cries.
I’d so longed to see Robert again, where I could force the matter into the light of day. I’d known there was a greater chance he’d turn me away than welcome our forbidden relationship. But the reality hurt more than I’d imagined.
I’d allowed myself to dream of the two of us sneaking behind our families’ backs if that’s what it took, stealing time where we could. I’d not thought past that to the inevitable end—for we’d have had to end it eventually.
Robert was right. Marriage between Negroes and whites was not only taboo but also illegal. What good was our love if consecration in the eyes of God and the law was forbidden?
But in my selfishness, I was devastated that Robert wasn’t willing to borrow what we could. I was furious, not only with him but with myself, for allowing my heart to dream. I was embarrassed and ashamed.
For days, I went downstairs only for meals when my mother or father insisted, or to go out for church on Sundays.
My mother fretted, afraid her tendency to sick headaches was hereditary. My father seemed resigned, although disappointed, as I’d always possessed an adventurous spirit, nothing like the pretty flower he’d married, only to discover she wilted daily at noon.
Daddy insisted I accompany him on a house call that required a long drive into the country, as I often had in the past. Back then, more often than not, I’d simply wandered his patients’ acreage, thrilled to explore new spaces, or read in the car with the top down under the shady canopies of wise old trees. If there were children, I’d played with them, their parents grateful for the diversion while my father examined or treated, the kids delighted to have company in their isolated surroundings. On occasion, Daddy even let me watch while he performed minor procedures, allowing me to hand him supplies as long as I’d washed up beforehand and the patient didn’t object. Daddy affectionately called me “Nurse” when we were out, claiming he’d rather have me assist any day.
But this time, I refused to leave the car, even when the upholstery threatened to scorch my arms and legs. I turned away when he asked me to tell him what was wrong, afraid he might read something other than physical pain in my eyes—afraid he might discover my secret.
I longed to share it with him. My silence violated our connection, the one he didn’t have with my brothers, who spent their days and nights carousing, wasting his money, and getting into senseless trouble. I knew, even though he’d never declared it aloud—instead, gently, subtly prodding me toward it—he hoped for greater things from me, his studious, curious daughter. If nothing else, I think he believed I’d make an excellent physician’s wife, more suited as a helpmeet for a small-town doctor than his own wife had turned out to be. If he’d known about Robert and me, he’d have been surprised how accurate his prediction could have been—if only that relationship wasn’t impossible.
But I realized now that he’d never stood up to my mother when it came to the big things. Even if he understood the emotions that tore at me like milkweed against flesh, I couldn’t trust that he’d offer any more help than a shoulder to cry on, and I was out of tears.
Wind seared my face as we drove home. I kept my eyes on the blurred landscape at the side of the road. I felt Daddy’s gaze upon me when he’d glance away from the highway, and it occurred to me to wish, maybe for the first time in my life, he were different. I wondered if my mother wished he’d be stronger, too. Maybe that was all she’d ever wanted.
One dull day ran into the next. The heat still burned like smoldering ash, though the bitter scent of summer’s finale now permeated the air. A timid knock startled me from a restless nap. I’d dozed off reading Little Women. My favorite stories distracted me from self-pity—temporarily. As quiet as the tap was, I sprang from the bed, crashing my book to the floor.
She peeked around the edge of the door. “Miss Isabelle? Can I come in?”
I waved her in and settled back on my bed. “I think my heart just stopped,” I said. Of course, it was already broken, but how could she know that?
“I’m sorry, Miss Isabelle. Didn’t mean to scare you.” She retrieved my book from the floor, her finger marking the place where it had landed facedown. I reached for it and closed it, then returned it to the shelf over my bed.
She carried nothing—no laundry to put away, no cleaning supplies. She stood before me, threading her apron between her fingers.
“What is it, Nell? Did you need something?”
“Yes, ma’am,” she said. Yet stayed there, no explanation.
“Oh, Nell, for pity’s sake, you needn’t call me ‘ma’am.’ It makes me sad we’re all grown up now and you feel you must address me as if I were my mother. Be assured I am not my mother.” I shuddered.
“I know it, Miss Isabelle. But Momma says I must pay you the same respect now you’re a young lady.”
“Hogwash. You respect me. And I respect you. Now, tell me why you’re here. I can hardly stand it.”
“Well. You know that day? The one you talked to Robert while he patched up the retainer wall?”
I nodded and waited.
“My brother, he’s moped around the house ever since. Like you’ve moped around here. Something ain’t right with either of you. It’s got me so worried.”
I weighed her words. After all our years growing up together, I knew I could trust her with anything, yet the situation seemed hopelessly silly when I considered telling her. I fiddled with a pencil from my nightstand.
Nell nudged the side of my bed with her knee. “So. You think of anything I should know about Robert? Anything that might help him not be so moody? So down?”
“Oh, Nell. I won’t involve you. I can’t.”
She straightened her shoulders, her face stern. “I’m
asking you to involve me. I can’t stand to watch you two this way.”
She stood still while I considered. Finally, I checked to be sure the door was closed tight. I spoke in hushed tones, carefully guarding every syllable of my confession. It surprised me to find the telling wasn’t awkward at all, speaking of my deepening affection for Robert—even if he was her brother. I didn’t tell every detail, but I sensed she comprehended the depth of my feelings. And every second, she was stoic. It was obvious none of it surprised her.
I finished. She shook her head. “It’s what I’ve been afraid of. I asked Robert what it is, why he’s so blue, and he brushes me away. But I know what a young man looks like when he’s in love.” Her voice trembled, and the glow in her cheeks heightened.
“I know, too, Nell. I saw it that night at the arbor. It’s obvious you and Brother James love each other, and he’s a good man. I’m thrilled for you. It’s just—it’s a shame things aren’t so simple for me and Robert.” I pulled at my bangs and twisted a lock around my finger—I was probably nearly bald from this habit I’d long held but only recently perfected.
“It’s not smart,” Nell said. I nodded miserably, twisting even tighter.
“But I’ll be thinking on this while I do my work today, Miss Isabelle,” Nell said. My head snapped up. “My two favorite people in the world, so down in the dumps … this makes me blue, too.” She stepped closer to the bed and touched my shoulder. As young girls, we’d held hands, dancing and playing together in the garden, or huddled so close our foreheads touched while we whispered secrets. But in recent years, we’d begun to observe our mothers’ conventions, and I’d become careful not to do anything to cause my mother to scold me—or worse, to scold Nell. Since the night I’d brushed her off, we hadn’t touched except by accident.
My throat swelled at her fingers pressing on my shoulder. The pressure hurt, making me painfully aware how thin I’d become. Too thin to begin with, I’d probably courted danger with my refusal to eat more than I had to lately, and I cringed to imagine what Robert would think to see me now—a wraith. But in this moment, I was more conscious of the regret I felt for the breakdown between his sister and me. I was thankful. Nell had returned to me.
14
Dorrie, Present Day
WE MADE GOOD time leaving Memphis, and I drove three hours before we needed to stretch our legs. We weren’t ready for lunch yet—still full of complimentary breakfast buffet—but Miss Isabelle asked me to pull off the road in Nashville. We parked in a visitor’s space at the front of a college I’d never heard of.
I checked my phone, eager to see if Teague had called back. Damn. I’d missed four calls and a whole slew of text messages. But not from Teague. My heart raced when I saw Stevie Junior’s name on every single one. If he was calling me, it couldn’t be good news. The messages were ambiguous, though. “Call me,” or “Mom, call me ASAP,” again and again. My fingers shook as I hit the callback button. Was it my mother? A heart attack or a fall while I was on the road? Or, heaven forbid, had something happened to Bebe? My sweet little girl was an innocent. If anyone had done anything to her, so help me God.
It wasn’t any of those. But it was worthy of my panic.
“What is it, Stevie? Momma okay? Bebe?”
“They’re fine, Mom. But you better brace yourself. I got two things to tell you, and neither one’s gonna make you happy with me. In fact, I’m probably lucky you’re not here, or I’m pretty sure you’d go ahead and kill me now.”
It’d been weeks since Stevie Junior had made a speech that long in my presence. It had been all I could do to pull guttural whats and yeahs out of him when I asked him to do something or, heaven forbid, inquired about his life. This was not a good sign.
“Okay. Well. Hit me.”
He breathed a little heavier. “Mom, uh, are you sitting down by any chance?”
I wasn’t. I was pacing back and forth next to the historical marker Miss Isabelle was studying in front of the college. I suspected it was about to turn into a hysterical marker. “Nope, got nowhere to sit. Come on, now, Stevie. Spill.”
“I have to tell you this in order, Mom. First part first, so the second part makes sense. Not that it’s going to make sense either way or make you any less mad.”
He was trying my patience. “Stevie. Spit. It. Out. Now.”
“Mom … Bailey’s … she’s…”
“Pregnant?”
Dead silence on the other end for a full thirty seconds. There was my answer.
“You knew?” he asked finally, wonder in his voice. And relief.
“You think I’ve spent the last thirty-some-odd years wandering around with my hands over my eyes and ears, son? Think I’ve learned nothing about boys and girls and the ways they get themselves into trouble and how they act when they do? Shoot, Stevie. I’ve just been waiting for the news. But I wish you’d told me earlier. Like in the privacy of our own home. Not when I’m on the road, trying to help my friend here at a very serious time. For the love of God, Stevie, we’re on our way to a funeral.”
“Momma, I’m sorry.”
“Yeah.” Ouch. I wasn’t shocked or surprised, but I wasn’t lying, either. I was disappointed in my boy. I’d done my best to provide everything he needed to come up better than I did, to make sure he knew how to take care of himself and the girls he hung out with. But each generation of teenagers, it seems, is no smarter than the one before.
Still.
“Oh, Stevie. I’m sorry, too. I know it was an accident. I love you, and we’ll figure this out.” There. I’d said the proper words of support and encouragement, the right thing to do, even if I wanted to jump through the telephone and strangle the dickens out of my kid.
“Well, that’s where the other thing comes in. We, uh, Bailey and me, we decided she’s too young to have a baby. It’s really bad timing for both of us. She—we made an appointment. To get, you know, an abortion.”
My heart stopped. I know it did. I heard leaves rustling around me. What the hell? An abortion? No. Freaking. Way. And bad timing? Hell, yeah, it was bad timing. Too bad they weren’t thinking about timing when they couldn’t keep their hands off each other.
“I know what you’re thinking, Mom.”
“Yes.”
“But Bailey, she’s already made up her mind. She can’t imagine being big and pregnant or having a baby, what with starting college next year and all. Plus, her parents would seriously freak. They’d probably kick her out if they knew.”
“Her parents don’t know?”
“No. As of now, you make the third person, counting us. Well, maybe she told Gabby—her best friend. I don’t know for sure.”
A girl named Gabby keeping a secret? I would have laughed if I hadn’t needed to cry more. “Oh, baby. We have to think about this. Can’t it wait until I get back? I’ll be home in just a few days. The three of us can sit down. You know how I feel about this.”
“Mom, people do it all the time.”
“I don’t care what other people do. That’s their business. I care what we do. Our family. I think about you, Stevie.”
I heard him breathing hard, and I knew he was reflecting on what I’d said, what I’d always said. That I’d considered it myself for maybe ten seconds. That I was so thankful I had him. That I couldn’t imagine my life without him.
But I also knew—and this was hard—that this time it was not my decision. “I’m not saying you have to do what I want, but I think we need to talk. A couple more days won’t make a difference.”
“The appointment’s tomorrow.”
My heart sank down low, somewhere around my navel. Suddenly, I felt powerless, like I was circling the planet with next-to-zero gravity, barely hanging on, watching everything on my part of the marble spin right out of control.
“So, Mom? Here’s the second part.”
“The second part? That wasn’t the second part? Stevie…”
“No. There’s more. See, the appointment costs about three
hundred. Neither of us had any money. You know I don’t.”
Fingers of dread curled up and pinched the back of my neck. Then I did find a place to sit. A concrete bench, in fact, conveniently tripped me in my stumbling around, and I sank down, not even caring its surface was covered with bird droppings. At least they were dry.
“Oh no, you didn’t. Oh no.”
“I haven’t even told you yet.”
“Oh, Stevie. Please tell me you didn’t.” The silence deepened between us. I knew, and he knew that I knew, even if he wasn’t ready to admit it.
The money at the shop. Oh God. He’d been the one to break in and take it. My baby son, who’d up until a year or so before never been able to look me in the eye and lie. The one all the teachers said they counted on to do the right thing even when they weren’t looking.
Unplanned pregnancy? It happened to the best of us. Like I could talk.
Burglary? Lord. Have mercy.
Finally, he began talking again, in a raggedy voice, and I knew it cost him to tell me the truth, but I cut him no slack on this one.
“I was there when Teague came for the key this morning, Mom. Gran gave it to him, and I just sat there and watched, feeling like I was going to puke. I thought you’d come home and figure out someone broke in and fix the door like you always do. But I wasn’t thinking at all, was I? I couldn’t believe you left any money”—his voice went north—“and I was kind of hoping you hadn’t. Because then I could have told Bailey we were out of luck. We’d have to figure something else out or wait. But there it was. Three hundred dollars. Mom, I couldn’t figure out what else to do.”
So now it was my fault. But then, Stevie Junior’s voice caught, and my son broke into the caliber of sobs I hadn’t heard in years, not since he’d figured out his daddy was gone for good, that he wouldn’t come dragging his tail home one more time, begging me to take him back. “I’m so sorry, Mom. I’m stupid. I hate myself. I didn’t know what to do.” He sobbed for a few minutes while I let him suffer. While I let me suffer.