by Lois Battle
“Put that down,” Cuba said sharply, but motioned for the girl to come to her and put her arm around her. “Long’s you get me that check soon, Miss Lila. Otherwise, they be carrying me off to jail for not paying my note.”
“We’ll be at the church tonight to hear you sing. I’ll give it to you then.”
“Better come early. They’s goin’ to be some crowd.”
“We will. And I hope you and your family have a happy Christmas.” She couldn’t think of anything else to say. Leaving the room she heard Cuba say, “That there’s a pepper mill. Bring it over here real careful and I’ll show you how it works.”
Reentering the kitchen, she saw that Josie had pulled up a chair close to Reba’s. Reba, who now had Antoinne on her lap, was looking at a 3” x 5” card from Josie’s box of recipes. “Go ahead and copy it,” Josie was telling her. “I don’t know why it’s called a Huguenot Torte, ’cause it’s neither Huguenot nor a torte. I prefer a combination of black walnuts and pecans, because walnuts by themselves seem too strong.” Reba nodded. They hunched over the butter-stained, handwritten card as though it were one of the Dead Sea Scrolls. Lila felt as useless, out of place, and miserable as she’d ever been on the first day in a new school after one of Bear’s many transfers. She didn’t care about the great debate of walnuts versus pecans, or the function of a pepper mill. She was sick to death of the company of women and children.
Josie looked up. “Reba’s already whipped up the eggnog, but we haven’t spiked it yet. But if you want to pour yourself some and put in a jigger . . .”
“I have packages in the car. I’ll just go get them.”
“Let me help you,” Reba volunteered.
“Not necessary. I can carry them in myself.”
Going out, she was careful not to let the screen door bang, but when she opened the back door of her car and stared in at the presents, she suddenly slammed it and got into the driver’s seat. She turned on the ignition, started to back out of the drive, but couldn’t think where to go. If anyone had asked her, she would have said that she had plenty of friends, so many, in fact, that she had trouble keeping up with them. She had friends from the Tidewater to the Florida Keys—college friends, golf friends and tennis friends, club friends and committee friends, friends from Orrie’s business and his campaign—but none of them intimate enough that she would feel comfortable turning up unannounced the day before Christmas. None of them so close that she would let them see her in this state.
She turned off the ignition, ran up the electric window, and punched in a CD. As the soprano’s voice spiraled like a great plumed bird, she closed her eyes and tried to remember the breathing exercises she’d learned in Lamaze classes long ago. Being alone wasn’t so bad. It was being in proximity with people with whom you couldn’t communicate that made you feel the misery of isolation.
The tap on the window made her start, and she was even more surprised to see Bedford Bethune, dressed in his customary jeans and denim shirt, his hair loose from its ponytail, motioning for her to roll down the window. “Didn’t mean to scare you,” he said. “Started to pull in behind you but couldn’t figure out if you were coming or going.”
“Neither can I. Have you ever had one of those days?”
“I’ve not only had one of those days, I’ve had weeks, sometimes months, when I didn’t know if I was coming or going.” He hunkered down, crossing his arms and leaning into the car, his head cocked to one side to show he was listening. “What’s that you have on the tape deck?”
“ ‘Dome epais’ from Lakme.”
“Wouldn’t have taken you for an opera buff.”
His lashes were thick as a child’s and his right eyebrow had a devilish arch she’d noticed but hadn’t really taken in before. “I’m not. I’ve only seen two operas and that was because I was on a fund-raising committee for the Spoleto festival. And I didn’t particularly like them. Guess I’m a dilettante. I just like the arias.”
“That one’s real pretty.” The way he said it seemed to direct the compliment to her. He wasn’t flirtatious in the usual way—wasn’t given to compliments, smiles, and meaningful looks—in fact his usual demeanor was one of preoccupation verging on surliness. But the other night at the party he’d looked at her as though he found her—well, not mysterious, there was certainly nothing mysterious about her—but interesting. Interesting as a woman. She’d convinced herself that it was just her imagination, plus the fact that when he’d come into the room Ruth Cremori had whispered, “Environmental activist, huh? I wouldn’t mind going into the woods with him,” and had gone on to say that he’d bedded every single woman (and many who weren’t) between the ages of eighteen and sixty in Beaufort and Colleton counties. Bedford was homegrown of prize stock, but his draft-dodging and world travels had given him an exciting otherness. That, plus the fact that there weren’t many good-looking, unmarried straight men his age made him a prime target for exaggeration, wishful thinking, gossip. It had nothing to do with her personally.
Suddenly she wondered what he was doing here, at her mother’s house. He caught her expression and explained, “When I met Cam the other night, I told her I might drop by when I came into town.”
“I believe Cam’s sleeping. Seems she’s come down with the flu or something.”
“In that case . . .”
“I didn’t mean to dissuade you. There’s a houseful of people and I know my mother would be glad to see you. Just go on in.”
“Not important. I was just at loose ends.”
“I know. Lag time. Stuck between the preparations and the actual festivities.”
“Haven’t made any preparations except to get in a load of firewood. I’ve opted out of the family scene until tomorrow. Then I’ll go to my mother’s house, listen to my brother preach to me about the constitutional right to bear arms, eat a plate of turkey, and plead a prior engagement.”
She smiled because she couldn’t think of anything to say. He hitched up his jeans and tossed his head, flicking back his hair. “Want to go down to Emily’s and have a drink?”
“Oh, I don’t think so. I don’t want to be in a public place.”
“But you look fine. In fact, that blue sweater sets off the color of your hair.”
She wondered if he’d noticed that it was several shades lighter than it had been in high school. Not that he’d have noticed her then. Few people had noticed her, except as Cam’s little sister. “It’s my daughter’s sweater,” she said quickly, and could have bitten off her tongue.
He sucked on one cheek and teased her with his eyes. “You mean you don’t want to be seen with me because it’s politically compromising?”
“Heavens, no.” Though the thought had crossed her mind. “It’s just that with all the shopping and parties I’ve just had it with crowds.”
“Yeah. I thought about you during Orrie’s campaign. Saw you at one of the debates.”
“Did I look miserable?”
“Definitely not. You were charming. Very much in control. I just thought how hard it must be to maintain that control all the time.”
“I don’t maintain it all the time. Political meetings aren’t the place to let your hair down.”
He pulled his hair back. “Really? I always thought they were.” She smiled but looked away. She didn’t know how to have this kind of conversation with a man. The nuances and suggestions made her uncomfortable. “Well ...” She stared at the dashboard. “I’ll walk in with you. Maybe Cam’s up by now.”
“You don’t sound too eager.”
“It’s just that Mama’s got a houseful of people and, as I said, I’m worn out with crowds.”
“I don’t have to see Cam right now. What say we go for a walk?”
“On The Point? And have Mama’s neighbors hanging out the windows?”
“No. A walk on the beach. Drive out to Hunting Island with me.”
She could have said that she’d come out to get the presents and was going right back in, bu
t she said, “It’s too cold.”
“Sissy. It’s forty-five degrees and the sun is shining. Besides, this is the best time of the year to walk on the beach. No crowds, no umbrellas, no lifeguards, no volleyball players, no teenagers trying to pick each other up, no squalling kids getting sunstroke. Best of all, no radios.” He pulled his face into a mask of grim seriousness. “I like to think of myself as a man of peace, but I could pick up one of your father-in-law’s rifles in a heartbeat and gun down those fools with their noise. But hey.” He grinned like a kid being tickled, “What do you say? The whole beach to ourselves?”
She wrapped her arms around her chest and turned to look at the presents, her overnight bag, and the clothes she planned to change into for Cuba’s church service. “I don’t think . . .”
“Come on—let’s play hooky,” he persisted. “Twenty-minute drive out there, twenty-minute walk, twenty-minute drive back. There’s so much going on in there, they won’t even miss you.” Now he opened the door wide, reached for her hand to help her out. She ignored the gesture and got out by herself. She was standing close to him, her eyes level with the second button on his denim shirt. His chest was smoother than she’d supposed it would be, judging by the thick growth of hair on his head and forearms. “So,” he said in such a casual voice that she knew he was conscious that they might be seen, “are you coming or going? You know what Thoreau said.”
“I guess Thoreau must’ve said a lot of things.” She couldn’t trust herself to look at him.
“One thing he said was, ‘If I repent of anything, it’s very likely to be my good behavior.’ ” She looked around to make sure no one was watching, then moved ahead of him, down the drive toward his car. She’d expected a Land Rover, or at least a pickup truck, but it was an old BMW. “I quoted that in my high school valedictory speech,” he said as he got in beside her. “I’d kind of hoped you’d remember.”
Cam lay curled on the bed, eyes shut but nowhere close to sleep, her mind digging into the same ground, hitting packed earth and stone. Was she fit, temperamentally or physically, to be a mother? What arrangements could she possibly make in terms of work, money, insurance, a place to live? But how would she handle an abortion?
Hearing car doors slam and a motor start up, she opened her eyes, wondering vaguely if Cuba and her grandkids were leaving. If so, she should go downstairs. It wasn’t right to expect Josie and Reba to entertain each other when they were virtual strangers. She started up, then heard what sounded like a window being closed, followed by a soft patter of feet just outside her door. Mrs. Beasley, no doubt, checking out the comings and goings from the window at the end of the hallway. She sank back onto the pillows and curled onto her side. Cupping her hand over her ear, she was reminded of the first time Sam told her he loved her.
It had been in mid-July, about seven months after they’d met, and the weekend had started badly. Miserable, dog-day weather, near-deserted pavements shimmering with heat, temperatures over a hundred and, wouldn’t you know, the air conditioner in her apartment had gone on the fritz. Sam had woken before dawn, automatically pulling her to him, but she’d slept poorly and was feeling clammy and grouchy.
“Okay,” he’d sighed. “I can handle rejection. If it only happens once a day. Since we’re going downtown later, what say we get up now, walk across the Brooklyn Bridge, and watch the sun come up?” One of the things she enjoyed about Sam was his constant curiosity. He’d learned more about New York architecture than she’d ever bothered to find out and lately he’d been captivated by the Brooklyn Bridge. “All right,” she’d yawned. “I guess it’ll be our only chance for any exercise. I’ll make the supreme effort. Not because I want to, but just because ...” She’d almost said “because I love you” as she’d wanted to many times before, but she couldn’t bring herself to be the first to make such an admission, even in jest.
There was hardly any traffic and no other pedestrians in sight as they walked across the bridge. The sky turned from pewter to pale blue, and there was a relieving touch of dampness in the air. Sam talked about the bridge’s design, told her a story about its construction, said that when it was finally completed in 1883, it was the longest suspension bridge in the world, then waxed lyrical about its beauty. Seeing this streak of enthusiasm break through his usual shyness always delighted her. It made her feel as though she’d known him when he was a young man and also brought out her own capacity for simple enthusiasm. He was just plain fun to be with.
They took refuge in an air-conditioned coffee shop on the Brooklyn side, where they drank coffee and read the papers before hailing a cab across the bridge to meet Josh and Betsy in Chinatown. Since it was one of Betsy’s first outings since she’d given birth, she wanted to grocery shop after they had dim sum, so they’d obliged, trailing through sweltering streets, wandering into pungent-smelling grocery and herb stores, buying sesame oil and dried mushrooms, and marveling at other, unidentifiable foodstuffs. By the time they were saying good-bye, standing in front of a produce stall on Mott Street, Cam’s hair had flattened to her head, her lime linen shift was sticking to her back, and she was sure her deodorant had failed. As Josh and Betsy started to get into a taxi, Cam threw back her arm in an extravagant gesture of farewell . . . and knocked over a pyramid of oranges. Cam, the shopkeeper, and his little son all went scrambling after the tumbling fruit as the taxi pulled away. Betsy laughed and called out, “How can you put up with her?” and Sam, bending to retrieve an orange, called back, “I’ve got no choice; I’m in love with the woman,” as simply and matter-of-factly as if he were telling a stranger the time of day. Reaching into his wallet to give the shopkeeper a five, he took Cam’s arm and said, “I think you’ve got sunstroke, honey. Gotta get you indoors.”
“I dread going back to the apartment,” she told him as they got into his car.
“We’re not going back to the apartment. Everyone with a brain has left the city. I got us a suite at the Plaza.”
“What? I mean, when?”
“When I was paying the check for brunch I made a call.”
“But I’m ...” She looked down at her creased shift and sandals.
“You put on those big ol’ sunglasses and toss your head right, everyone’ll think you’re a celebrity. Marble tub, view of the park, matching robes . . . air-conditioning! Whatta you say? I’ll do anything to make my girl happy.”
“I say you’re wonderful.”
“Now you’re talking.”
He was wrapping her in one of those matching robes after they’d taken a bath, when he stopped, tucked back her hair, and touched her ear. “Know why ears are made in this shape?” She shook her head, feeling as though she were five years old. “Because this is the perfect shape for telling secrets. Can you guess the secret?” He brushed her earlobe with his lips, then whispered, “I love you.”
He loved her. He’d do anything to make her happy. But being forced into a lifelong commitment wasn’t quite the same thing as a weekend fling at the Plaza.
She could hear more car doors slamming and wheels spinning out fast enough to raise gravel. The sky was darkening, promising storm. Cooking smells. More voices downstairs. And still she couldn’t get up.
Twelve
“WON’T SOMEONE FINISH this off?” Josie gestured to the serving bowl that still contained a sizable portion of shrimp, spices, sausage, corn, and potatoes that made up a Lowcountry Boil, and looked around the dining room table.
Reba, seated next to Cam, said it was delicious but she’d already had two helpings. Cam studied the embroidery on the tablecloth. Orrie smiled, pressed a finger onto his plate to take up some cornbread crumbs, and shook his head. Susan diddled a fork around the shell of a shrimp it had taken her ten minutes to eat and Evie, predictably, lisped something about diets. Jasper, whose aggressive aftershave all but overwhelmed the smell of the food, pushed himself back from the table, loosened his belt, and patted his belly. Only Ricky, who seemed less in need of nourishment than anyone at the
table, reached in front of his sister without excusing himself, and speared another ear of corn. He wore a Braves baseball cap turned backward, a T-shirt, and bib overalls with one strap dangling over a shoulder that still had a layer of quaky baby fat. Josie watched with disgust as his orthodontally corrected teeth and stubbled jaw (Lila had told her that a three-day growth of beard was de rigueur with college boys) worked on the corn. My God, she thought, when Bear was no more’n a few years older than you are now, he was flying dangerous missions halfway around the world. She wanted to say, “Young man, you do not reach in front of someone without excusing yourself. You do not wear a hat at my table. And if you think that you’re to walk into Cuba’s church in that Little Rascals outfit, you’ve got another think coming.” But this was hardly the time to vent her feelings about Ricky’s manners or appearance. Instead, she said, “It’s really a summer dish and it’s best when all the ingredients are fresh, but since Reba’d never tried it and it’s so easy to fix, I thought we might as well have it tonight.”
“It was fine, Mama,” Orrie assured her. “I’m just not particularly hungry.” And why would you be, Josie thought, when it’s already dark and your wife’s been missing for hours? “Don’t you think . . .” he began.
“No, no, Orrie,” Josie soothed. “I’m sure she’s all right. Mrs. Beasley told me she saw her talking to some friend outside the house and they went off together. Probably just went down to Bay Street for a drink and forgot about the time.”
“Forgot the time on Christmas Eve?” Susan asked in a squeaky voice.
“We had a bit of an altercation last night,” Orrie admitted. “Holiday stress, I guess. But she seemed all right when she left the house this afternoon.”
“Erratic behavior isn’t all that rare during the holidays,” Evie told them. “I got so many letters on that article I did last week about stress and depression during the Christmas season.”