by Lois Battle
“Lord and Taylor!” Mrs. Beasley exclaimed, pointing to the shopping bag Cam had put on the table. “That’s one of my favorite stores. Christmas gifts?” Cam said “Yes,” and picked up the bag, afraid that Mrs. Beasley might actually reach in and start shaking the boxes.
“I’m up here visiting my niece,” Mrs. Beasley went on as though she were imparting delicate information. “I don’t like to stay at her house because she has small children and I don’t like to interfere. Still, they always want me to come for the holidays so I always stay here with your mother.”
Cam nodded, said, “That’s nice,” paused, then moved to the phone, muttering, “I think I’ll return that call.” She had no sooner punched in the number than she heard Josie return and Mrs. Beasley say, “Maybe I should have a cup of herb tea to help me sleep. Maybe we should all have a cup of tea,” and, lest her suggestion be ignored, Mrs. Beasley picked up the kettle and began to fill it with water. “As I was saying, I always stay here with your mother,” she rattled on. “This place has such a homey atmosphere.”
“Apparently,” Cam said, allowing herself a heavy dose of sarcasm because she knew it would be lost on Mrs. Beasley. It was not lost on Josie, who shot her a warning look. “Chamomile or raspberry?” Mrs. Beasley asked brightly. Now that she was riffling through Josie’s kitchen cabinets her mood seemed almost festive. Cam cupped her hand over her ear as the phone was picked up on the other end of the line and a man’s voice, gruff and sleepy, barked “Hello” as though it were a curse.
“I hope I haven’t disturbed you,” Cam began, checking her watch to reaffirm that it was only 10:20. “I’m trying to reach Ms. Reba Golden.” She was about to offer her apologies for having dialed the wrong number when the man said, “They’re not here right now,” and hung up. “And happy holidays to you too, jerk,” she muttered, replacing the receiver.
“Anything wrong?” Mrs. Beasley asked hopefully.
“I didn’t reach my friend,” she said, stifling another yawn.
Josie was setting out the cups and saucers, an expression of resignation on her face. Good manners, Josie always said, were made of petty sacrifices, but just now Cam didn’t feel like making even the most trivial sacrifice. She said, “I’m real tired, Mama. I think I’ll go on up to bed.”
“But I wanted to talk with you, dear.” Josie looked at Mrs. Beasley, foolishly entertaining the hope that she might get the message and leave them alone.
Cam said, “I guess we can talk in the morning. Which room do I sleep in?”
“First right at the top of the stairs. Here, let me help you up with your things.”
“Don’t bother. I’ll find it.” Cam picked up her case and shopping bag.
“There’s a bottle of lavender bath salts on the sink,” Josie informed her. “Maybe after you’ve had a bath . . .”
Cam said, “Thanks,” gave Josie a kiss on the cheek, and headed toward the stairs. Mounting them, she felt a disappointment close to resentment. Josie was so damned unselfish that she made herself available to everyone. Just as Bear had operated within a chain of command, Josie operated in the military wife’s “chain of concern.” Her door had always been open and her ear always available to those in need. Flowers or cards were sent at deaths and illnesses, births or promotions, she arranged kaffeeklatsches, helped women find secondhand baby carriages or raise money for the school board. And she expected the same code of conduct from her children. To be ill-mannered was as bad as wearing soiled underwear. “It’s more comfortable for me to be polite,” Josie would say, but, Cam thought, the opposite is true for me: I’d rather be rude than polite, at least to the likes of Mrs. Beasley. “Dear Daddy, thank God you didn’t live to be an innkeeper,” Cam muttered, dropping her bags and shutting the door.
She didn’t have the energy to take a bath in lavender salts, didn’t even bother to turn on the lights, just sat on the four-poster bed in the moonlight, scrunching off her boots, stripping off her slacks and sweater, pulling back the coverlet, and climbing in between sweet-smelling, smooth sheets.
Some twenty minutes later, after watching Mrs. Beasley drain a pot of chamomile tea and wishing she’d dosed it with arsenic, Josie watched her toddle off, then rinsed the cups. She allowed Mrs. B. time to settle, then climbed the stairs, knocked softly on Cam’s door, and waited.
“She’s probably asleep already,” Mrs. Beasley said, poking her netted head out of her room up the passageway.
“I suppose we should all be asleep now.”
“Sweet dreams,” Mrs. Beasley said, shutting her door.
Damn, the woman was everywhere, like ugly on an ape!
Josie sighed, checked the thermostat, washed her face and hands, cleaned her teeth, hung up her clothes, and pulled on her nightdress, all the while thinking about Cam. Something was wrong with the girl. Those circles under her eyes weren’t just from flying down from New York. And there was something strange about the way she held her body, contained and concentrated, the way she used to look just before she’d go off the high dive in a swimming contest. Something was definitely wrong. Not that she had a hope of finding out what it was.
She was so bone-tired that just lying down seemed like a wonderful gift, but she’d barely settled herself when the phone rang. She lunged for it on the first ring, afraid it would wake Cam or Mrs. Beasley, and almost tipped herself out of bed.
“Mama, it’s Lila.”
“Yes, dear,” she whispered, thinking perhaps Lila had called to apologize. “How’s your migraine?”
Lila ignored the question and went on in a businesslike voice. “I’ve called to firm up plans. I won’t be coming over tomorrow, but the day after—Christmas Eve day—we’ll all come over in the afternoon. Evie’s coming too. And Jasper. I’ll help you cook, we’ll decorate the tree, and go to Cuba’s church service like you want us to, and we’ll stay all night. That way we’ll already be there Christmas day.”
Josie said, “Fine,” despite her exhaustion, already juggling the sleeping arrangements in her mind. She would give Susan and Ricky separate rooms, Evie could go in with Cam, and since Mrs. Beasley had the lavender room, she’d put Lila and Orrie in the yellow room. She didn’t relish the idea of Jasper sleeping over—she made a mental note to get another bottle of bourbon—and since Lila really didn’t enjoy cooking, she would have preferred to fix Christmas dinner alone, but she was willing to do anything to make things go smoothly. “Fine,” she said again. “Everything else all right?”
“It’s almost midnight and Ricky’s not home yet.”
“Well, at that age . . .”
“And Evie called. She’s still out with Jasper and the Cremoris, and she wants to come back here to sleep.”
She knew she daren’t give any advice about ignoring both Ricky and Evie. “I do think the party went well, Lila. Everyone seemed—”
“Please, Mama. No post mortem. I need to get some rest.” And with that, Lila hung up.
Josie pulled the comforter up to her chin. Lila was never going to forgive her for changing the Christmas plans. Lila was never going to forgive her, period.
She heard Mrs. Beasley’s toilet flush. As a younger woman, waiting for Bear or Cam to come home, Josie’d walk the floor, bake cookies, read recipe books, or listen to the radio when she couldn’t sleep, but by the time Evie had entered high school she’d weaned herself away from anxious vigils. Problems, like dirty dishes, would still be there in the morning. She turned onto her side and willed herself to go to sleep. But tonight, willing herself didn’t work.
The wind blew the branches of the chinaberry tree against the window. She couldn’t stop thinking about Cam. A pipe in her bathroom made a burping sound. She remembered Dozier’d said that the hot-water heater would make it through the winter, but the air-conditioning system would definitely have to be overhauled before next summer.
She heard the grandfather clock downstairs strike one.
A car cruised past, its stereo turned up so loud that she could
hear the thrump. Certainly none of her neighbors were driving around The Point at this hour playing rap music. This was some in-your-face intrusion, a none-too-subtle expression of hostility, like the MALCOLM X RULES graffiti Edna had found on the side of her shop a few months ago. Edna had wanted to report it to the police but Dozier had said no. He’d mentioned the incident to a black man he was friendly with who owned a little market on Green Street where teenage boys hung out, hoping elders in the community would deal with it. Then he’d gotten up at dawn, painted it over, and said that was the end of that.
She moved her feet to warm them, curled up, and pulled her nightdress over them, wondering if it would be too tacky to put space heaters in the rooms.
She’d prefer to fix a fresh-killed turkey, but it was probably too late to get one. If Cuba could give her a couple of hours tomorrow, she’d be able to do last-minute grocery shopping. Creamed turnips. Cam had always loved them and they went so well with turkey. She mustn’t forget to buy turnips. Of course, she had to visit both Mawmaw and Peatsy . . .
She hoped to heaven Ricky had come home. She’d seen trouble coming with Ricky from the time he’d been in diapers. Like so many parents of their generation, Lila and Orrie had been child-centered. They’d always indulged both Ricky and Susan, pretending to give them free choice when they’d needed firm guidance, if not outright orders. How could you raise a child properly if you weren’t prepared to be hated once in a while? They’d never reined Ricky in, and here he was at eighteen, without a hint of manhood, going through money as though they minted it in the garage. “Correct thy son and he shall give thee rest; yea, he shall give delight unto thy soul.” She remembered the quote, but for the life of her, she couldn’t remember its chapter and verse. No doubt about it, she was losing her mind.
After five minutes of acute frustration (her Bible was downstairs and she was sure to wake Mrs. Beasley if she went in search of it) a voice that seemed to come from nowhere said “Proverbs 29:17” out loud. She sighed with relief and rearranged the pillows.
Hearing Mrs. Beasley’s toilet flush again, she wondered why she’d been stupid enough to let the woman drink an entire pot of tea. She knew Cam was angry with her because she’d humored Mrs. Beasley. What Cam didn’t understand was that Mrs. B. was a paying guest. But even more than that, Mrs. B. was a lonely woman. And loneliness wasn’t just a word, it was a naked terror. No human being could really feel it without going mad.
Wondering if she had enough pecans to make three pies. . . .
Eight
CAM WOKE THE next morning churning through the covers, knocking aside pillows as though she were being suffocated. Coming up for air, she blinked at the canopy, then turned on her side and looked at the room. It was like waking up in a dell—all greens, roses, and browns kissed with sunlight. Against a background of William Morris wallpaper in a lovely vine and pomegranate design there was a walnut wardrobe and matching chest of drawers, a marble-topped dressing table and oval mirror, standing towel rack, nineteenth-century drawings of local flora, a crystal bowl of potpourri—a place for everything and everything in its place—save the pile of clothes she’d dropped on the floor. No doubt about it, her mother had exquisite taste, but such carefully planned Victorian domesticity made her feel queasy. The possibility of her pregnancy crashed over her. Yes, she definitely felt queasy. But also ravenously hungry. She opened the door to the hallway and got a more powerful whiff of the coffee and cinnamon she had only been vaguely conscious of smelling. Closing the door and going into the adjoining bathroom, she checked her underpants, felt her heart sink when she saw nothing, slapped water on her face, and put on the white terry-cloth robe hanging on the back of the door. She opened the hall door again and looked from left to right. Relieved to see that Mrs. Beasley wasn’t lurking, ready to pounce, she went downstairs.
The brightness and warmth of the sun coming through the kitchen window was both shocking and delightful. She shielded her eyes as though she had a hangover and picked up the note on the kitchen table.
Dear Cam—
You seemed so tired I didn’t want to wake you. I’ve gone over to the hospital to visit Peatsy. Be back by eleven, then maybe we can go visit Mawmaw—
Love, Mama.
She poured herself a cup of coffee, picked up a cinnamon bun from the tray on top of the stove, and moved slowly into the next room. Since she had never lived here, she had the almost disembodied sensation one feels when walking alone through a stranger’s deserted house. The walls of the dining room were a rich ivory, the woodwork Charleston green. A Queen Anne table that could seat a dozen people shone in the light from the tall windows, which were draped in heavy fabric with a palmetto-and-pineapple motif. Like the rest of the house, the room had both understated beauty and a sense of comfort. Josie finally had the dining room she’d always wanted, and it seemed sad to Cam that paying guests rather than family sat at her table.
She paused next to the sideboard, licked the cinnamon frosting from her fingers and touched a bowl of holly and berries. Something familiar struck her and she realized that the sideboard had been one of Mawmaw’s prized possessions—a massive piece of furniture that came from a time when people didn’t jump on planes and fly halfway round the world in a single day, when living in one house for a lifetime was not unusual. On the wall was a framed letter from Mawmaw’s great-grandfather, written during the Civil War, that began: “My dearest and most cherished wife . . .” Cam thought, Sam would appreciate this. If he were there she would tell him about the first time it had been shown to her, when she’d been about six years old. Mawmaw had told her that it was one of the most valuable things she owned and when she’d asked how much was it worth, Mawmaw had told her, with a sternness that still stuck in her mind, that truly valuable things had no price.
Wandering into the living room, she saw the green, cream, and red antique carpet Josie had bought, over Bear’s objections, while they were traveling through Turkey. Carpets, Josie’d insisted, were a good investment. They could be moved anywhere, shipped, and stored. Since they’d never had a house big enough for this one, it had been stored until they’d retired. Cam sat cross-legged, next to the Christmas tree, running her hand back and forth over the nap of the carpet, staring at the boxes labeled ORNAMENTS. The first one she opened had the usual tinsel and brightly colored balls. The next one was marked SPECIAL—HANDLE WITH CARE. All its contents were protected with Styrofoam peanuts. There was a little silver plane (a gift from Josie to Bear), a lacquered butterfly from Kyoto, a hand-carved rocking horse, no doubt a legacy of some distant relative who had whittled, and, at the bottom, wrapped in pink tissue paper, an angel doll Mawmaw had made, with cloth body, bisque face and hands, and human hair. Touching it gave her a shiver. The baby-gold hair had belonged to one of Mawmaw’s children, Christina, who’d died of some old-fashioned disease—scarlatina? whooping cough?—when she was just four years old. Mawmaw had always put Christina on top of her Christmas trees, saying that she had her own private angel.
She had always thought that her mother’s obsession with houses and decorating was small-minded, “feminine” in the most narrow sense. She had even suspected that Josie’d wanted this place, next to her sister’s, because she was envious of Edna’s home and possessions. But now it struck her that Josie’s desire for a home wasn’t just acquisitive, and her need to save things wasn’t just hoarding. It was Josie’s way of creating a center, trying to hold things together. A beautiful home was permanence in an impermanent world, a little utopia where she tried to give herself and those nearest to her a sense of comfort, beauty, security. The nesting instinct was not just “feminine” but deeply female.
She rewrapped the angel, put it back into the box, went back into the kitchen, checked the notepad, and dialed. The line was answered by a man who said “Merry Christmas” in the same cheery tone one might hear when listening to “This is a test of the emergency broadcast system. This is only a test.”
“Sorry, if I’ve
disturbed you,” she began. “May I please speak to Reba Golden?”
“She’s not here.” The same response she’d gotten the last night, but this time, there was a weight to it, not just “She’s out,” but “She’s gone.”
“Ah ... when do you expect her back?”
A pause. Then a terse, “I don’t.”
“Then could I please talk to Cheryl?” she asked quickly. But the man had already hung up.
She was sitting by the kitchen window, sipping a third cup of coffee and staring out the window, when the phone rang. As she picked it up she thought, stupidly, that Sam might have tracked her down. Instead she heard a familiar throaty voice laced with a Bronx accent. “Good morning. This is Reba Golden. May I please speak to Cam Tatternall?”
“Reba, it’s me. I just tried to call you.”
“Then I needn’t have said good morning. I could’ve told the truth and said shitty morning.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m in a Motel 6 in someplace called Spartanburg, and believe me it is.”
“What are you doing there?”
“Eating Doritos for breakfast and watching infomercials on TV.”
“No, I mean—”
“They kicked me out.”
“Who?”
“Cheryl’s family. Okay, that’s an exaggeration. They didn’t kick me out. They just made me feel like something the cat had dragged in, then Cheryl and I had a fight, so I left.”
“Oh, Reba. I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, well. I knew it wasn’t going to be a cakewalk, but we’d talked on the drive down about how we were gonna handle things. I mean, we weren’t gonna do a mad tango and turn it into their first gay Christmas. I promised not to discuss politics, sex, or religion—which, as you know, are the only subjects that really interest me. And Cheryl agreed that she’d at least admit that we’re roommates, so I wouldn’t have to watch everything I said. But when we get there, Cheryl goes all soft and runny, doesn’t mention a thing—even about us living together—just says we’re business partners. I’m bent out of shape, but I figure I can deal with it.”