“I guess this explains Mother’s love for her morning coffee,” I said, thinking my grandmother would be pleased that she had affected her daughter in such a habitual kind of way. “Nathaniel always takes Mother two cups before she gets out of bed. Mother says she just can’t face the day without it.”
“Before she gets out of bed? No fooling. Sounds like a spoilt princess to me. Lord, sometimes it’s hard for me to believe that child is mine,” Nana puffed, the word princess leaving a familiar and unsettling ring in my ears. “She didn’t always think she was better than everybody else. Big city done gone to her head. Hardly acts like she even knows who we are anymore. Hell, that girl never once appreciated what she did have.” Nana was suddenly spewing all sorts of foul, nasty words about her only daughter, sounding like an old, leaky pipe that had finally burst, flooding the room with anger and disappointment. She stomped out of the kitchen muttering something about needing to have her bath before Macon got home.
Sometimes I used to wonder if I was adopted. Cornelia said most kids do that at one time or another. She’d read that in Seventeen. For a time, I was certain that my real mother was a sweet, quiet woman with a kind smile who loved to work in her garden and greet me after school with a shower of hugs and kisses and questions about my day. Now seeing my grandmother, dressed in her worn-out chenille housecoat and dirty terry-cloth slippers, with pin curls clipped against her head, I wondered if my own mother had ever shared the same dream.
I sucked a tiny bit of the coffee over the rim of the mug and let it set in my mouth, but even doctored with milk and sugar, it was too strong and bitter. Nana said I’d come to like it if I kept at it. But as soon as I heard the water running in the tub, I poured the coffee down the drain.
From the open kitchen window, I could see Pop’s dilapidated green tractor still sitting in the lake. After the engine blew a few years ago, he just rolled it right down into the water. He said that a nice tasty fish would love to make a bed under that John Deere. I used to think it looked wonderful out there in the lake, half of it sticking straight up like some kind of crazy artist’s sculpture, the other half mysteriously hidden below the surface. Now it looked like nothing but a piece of junk that desperately needed to be hauled away.
“Bezellia, hey, honey, is that you?” I knew that voice without even looking to see who was calling my name. Mrs. Clara Scott had lived next door to my grandparents, well, since I could remember. I believe she may have been the kindest, sweetest woman I ever knew. And whenever I spent any time with Mrs. Scott, I swear the sun even shone a little brighter.
She had spied me from her own kitchen window and was practically falling out the small opening above the sink, contorting her body to get a better look, her large bosom pinched against the windowsill. The Scotts lived next door in the only brick house on this side of the lake. Mr. Scott worked at a bank down in Nashville and made the hour-long drive to the city and then back home again every single day. Mother never could understand why they chose to live so far from town, but Mrs. Scott simply said this lake was the most beautiful place on earth. Mother couldn’t help but wonder where all on earth she had been.
The Scotts’ only daughter, Megan, was a year older than me and one of the prettiest girls I’d ever seen. She was every bit as pretty as those models in the magazines, and Cornelia always figured she could have gone to New York City and modeled professionally except that Megan couldn’t say or hear a single word. During the week she went to the Lebanon School for the Deaf and the Blind, where she learned to talk with her hands. Nana said the real reason the Scotts lived out in the country, and not down in Nashville, was so they could hide their misfortune from the rest of the world.
As I stepped onto the brick walk that led to the Scotts’ front door, the loud roar of a riding mower drew my attention back to my grandparents’ yard. I turned around so hurriedly that I lost my footing and almost landed in the bed of bright red geraniums that were planted near the front steps. I expected to see Pop on top of his new John Deere, maybe taking it for a quick spin so I could admire it, ooh and aah over it. But there on top of my grandfather’s tractor sat a boy about my age. He was wearing a navy blue T-shirt and khaki shorts. A bright green ball cap covered his head, but his arms and legs were already a golden tan. He tipped his cap in my direction and then went about mowing the grass.
“Oh, my Lord, Bezellia, look at you. Oh my, I cannot believe that’s you,” Mrs. Scott shouted, forcing her small, almost childlike voice to be heard over the lawn mower. She pulled me into the entry hall and folded her thick, warm arms around me. Then she pushed me back, like my grandmother had, to get another good, long look. “You are so grown. Oh my, you are such a beautiful young woman. Looking more like your mother every day. Oh, my Lord. Get in this house and tell me what is going on with you.” No one had ever told me that I looked like my mother, until yesterday. Now I’d heard it twice and was surprised how much I liked it.
“Oh, how I wish Megan was here to see you,” Mrs. Scott continued, hardly pausing to take a breath. “She is going to be sick when she finds out that you are here. We didn’t know you were coming till just the other day.”
“Oh,” I said in a slightly wilted tone. “I really wanted to see her. Where’d she go?”
“Lord, that girl has gone to California for the summer.”
“Really?” I asked, obviously surprised. Suddenly it seemed very unfair that Megan’s parents would let her travel clear across the country and she not being able to speak one single word while my parents wouldn’t let me go to Paris, and I spoke the whole damn language—with an honest and authentic accent! I wondered how you said quel dommage with your hands.
“Yep, she just left day before yesterday. She’s staying with my sister down in some place called Marina del Rey and won’t be back till the middle of August. She’s learning to surf. Can you imagine that? She is just going to be sick when she hears you’re here and she’s there. Come on in and sit down and tell me what’s going on with you.”
Mrs. Scott put her arm around my waist and led me into a pleasant, sunny room with a large picture window. Beneath it was a long yellow sofa that reminded me of a big stick of butter with matching yellow lamps framing either end. The Scotts were definitely, as my grandmother would say, “highfalutin city people,” even if their address indicated otherwise. We sat side by side in the middle of the sofa, and Mrs. Scott laughed out loud as she repositioned the pillows behind her, admitting that her newly found passion for needlepoint might be becoming something of a hazard.
I told her that I, too, had done my fair share of needlepointing lately, and then I continued from there, spilling my story in tedious detail. Mrs. Scott sat patiently next to me, staring intently into my eyes, at least acting as though she was listening to every syllable spoken. I wondered if most mothers were this attentive or if she was such a good listener because she had to work extra hard to understand Megan.
I told her about my classmates’ life-altering trip to Paris and mine to Old Hickory Lake. I told her about Adelaide and Baby Stella and all the other blue-eyed dolls that demanded my sister’s attention. I told her about Mother going to Minnesota every summer, and about Mrs. Hunt sitting on our front porch—first with my mother, then with my father. I knew my mother would die if she knew all the secrets I was sharing. But I didn’t care. I just kept talking, except about Samuel. I kept Samuel to myself.
Mrs. Scott offered me a bowl of homemade banana pudding, the kind that’s full of Nilla wafers and fresh bananas, the kind she said can help soothe an aching, troubled heart. I had two helpings while I flipped through the photo album of the Scotts’ family trip to Destin. The three of them looked so happy standing on the beach with their feet buried in the sand like one of those families you’d expect to see on a picture postcard inviting you to come and vacation on Florida’s sandy, white beaches. They sure didn’t look like they were trying to hide any kind of misfortune.
As I turned the last page, I realized that
the lawn mower had stopped.
“Mrs. Scott,” I asked, still holding the album in my hands, “who’s that boy mowing my grandparents’ yard?”
“Oh, Lord, isn’t he a doll?”
“I can’t really tell from here. Just wondering who my grandfather would trust with his new John Deere.”
“Oh, believe me, Bezellia, he is precious. Megan just loves him. I mean like a brother and all. And he is just as good as they come. He is so sweet to her. He’s even learned to sign enough words that the two of them can carry on a conversation.” Cornelia would say that kind of sensitivity in a man is a rare and wonderful gift and should not be overlooked. I knew that’s what she’d say.
“Rutherford. Rutherford Semple,” Mrs. Scott continued. “But he hates Rutherford, so we all call him Ruddy. His daddy runs a small farm on the other side of Old Cove Road. Lived up here all his life. Lord, your mama surely must know him. They might have gone to school together. Anyway, Ruddy’s mama takes in sewing. She’s the one who put all these pillows together for me. They don’t have much, but they’re good people. Real good church people.”
“How long has he been working for Pop?”
“Oh, my goodness. I guess it’s been ever since your granddaddy had that big heart attack. When was that? Two, three years ago now? Lord, has it been that long since I’ve seen you? Anyway, he’s been doing it ever since then,” Mrs. Scott said and paused for a moment. “Kinda thought I would have seen your mama up here at some point. But I know she’s real busy with all her volunteer obligations. Your grandmother tells me that she’s a very important woman in town.”
I smiled, knowing that mother would be so pleased to know that someone still thought that she was important.
“But you ought to go and meet him,” Mrs. Scott suggested. “It would be nice for you to know someone your own age way out here, particularly since Megan is gone for the summer. In fact, you better get going. Go introduce yourself. I’ve kept you long enough now.”
Mrs. Scott scooted me right out the front door, of course not before my promise to come for dinner one night soon when Mr. Scott would be home. He would love to see me too, she said.
“Go on, girl, before your granddaddy pays him and he gets gone.” Mrs. Scott gently laughed, kindly urging me in the right direction. She stood in the doorway with a smile on her face, watching my every step, making sure I stopped to introduce myself to the cute boy in the bright green ball cap. I was almost running to my grandparents’ house, even though I had this odd feeling in the pit of my stomach that I might be cheating on Samuel by the time I got there, cheating on a boy I hadn’t even talked to in almost two years.
The riding mower was already parked under the aluminum carport. It was still ticking and pinging, trying to cool its engine in the late morning heat. I slowed down in case Ruddy happened to be looking, not wanting to appear too eager or obvious. I caught my breath and pushed my hair behind my ears and then stepped onto the front porch. But as I reached for the screen door, it suddenly swung toward me, almost knocking me to the ground. And in that moment, as I teetered on one foot, it seemed that all those thoughts about Samuel I’d been carrying around for so long were knocked to the back of my heart, just far enough to make room for one more boy.
“Oh, man, I didn’t see you there. Sorry about that.”
“It’s a screen door,” I said and grinned.
“I’m real sorry. Just wasn’t paying attention, I guess. You okay?” Ruddy asked, standing right there in front of me with his ball cap in his hand but trying to look anywhere except at me. He scooted toward the edge of the porch, and I wondered if he was attempting to stage his escape.
“You must be Rutherford Semple,” I said, calling him by his full name. Cornelia said it was very alluring when a woman called a man by his full, God-given name. But this Rutherford tightened his eyes, letting me know he didn’t care for that much.
“I am. But I’d just as soon you call me Ruddy.”
“Sure thing, Ruddy.”
“And you must be the granddaughter I keep hearing so much about,” he said, now staring down at his work boots. “I knew you was coming. Mr. and Mrs. Morgan been talking ’bout you for weeks.”
“I guess I am. And I guess you’re the boy I’ve been hearing about, the one my grandfather trusts with his new John Deere.”
“Yeah, guess so. But it ain’t exactly new. He bought it used from a man on the other side of the cove.”
“Well, anything less than ten years old is new to my grandfather.”
Ruddy laughed, nodding his head in agreement. His deep brown eyes relaxed, and when he smiled, a little dimple on his left cheek appeared out of nowhere. I stepped closer to the house, brushing past him in a slow, deliberate way, and then carefully pulled the screen door toward me. “Maybe I’ll see you around,” I said, and then I stepped inside and let the door slam shut behind me.
Cornelia would be so proud. I’d been flirty and coy but vague and slightly disinterested, and I hadn’t required the Parisian sun bouncing off my cheeks to do it either. I needed to write my cousin and tell her about this Rutherford Semple. And I needed to write Mary Margaret Hunt and let her know that the best-looking men were not, it turned out, in France.
“I see you met Ruddy,” I heard my grandmother shouting from the kitchen.
“Yeah. He was coming out as I was coming in.”
“Don’t be getting too friendly with him.” Nana stepped outside the kitchen door just far enough so I could see her face. She was holding a knife in one hand and an onion in the other. She wiped her eyes with the hem of the ratty old apron she had loosely tied about her waist.
“He’s a nice boy and all, but he spends way too much time with Megan, and something about that just ain’t right.”
“I think it’s nice that he hangs out with Megan. Besides, they’re just friends, Nana. Mrs. Scott said so herself.”
“Just friends? A girl who can’t talk. Lord, child, are you kidding? That boy could only have one thing on his mind, and that’s getting into her pants. Just like his daddy.”
“Nana!” I said, surprised to hear my grandmother talk about any boy getting into any girl’s pants. “Mrs. Scott says Ruddy is very nice. And what do you mean ‘just like his daddy’?”
“Forget it. It’s not important. But remember this, Bezellia, I didn’t just crawl out from under some rock the way your mama would like you to think I did. Mark my words, the only reason he spends time with that girl is because he likes the way she fits into those blue jeans she’s always wearing. God almighty, you can see everything the good Lord gave her.”
I didn’t even bother to argue with her because I was beginning to realize, just as it was with my own mother, that an argument would be nothing but a waste of words. I honestly didn’t care what my grandmother thought. It felt good to be interested in a boy again, and I liked Ruddy Semple, whether he wanted in my pants or not. And I wasn’t so sure that was a bad place for him to be.
Turned out, Ruddy was everything Mrs. Scott had said he would be. He was kind, a little shy, but patient and very handsome. His chest was broad and strong, and his eyes were the warmest, deepest brown I had ever seen. His dark hair was cut short and parted over to the side. And when that little dimple on his left cheek surfaced, I found myself wanting to curl up in his arms.
Before long, Ruddy and I were spending most every afternoon together paddling around in my grandfather’s rowboat, checking his fishing lines that were tied to empty plastic milk jugs and scattered about the lake. We drifted through the summer doing nothing more than talking and holding hands. And when he finally kissed me, he hoped my granddaddy would understand that his feelings for me were true and honest. I really didn’t care what anybody thought. I just wanted Ruddy to kiss me again.
To tell the truth, Pop thought Ruddy kept coming around the house because he needed extra spending money. But Nana knew better and just stared him down like a hungry hawk circling her prey. When my grandmother was i
n the room, poor Ruddy spent most of the time talking to his feet.
He said that when he was singing and playing his guitar he had more courage than a lion and that he was heading to Nashville as soon as he graduated from high school. He was going to be a famous country music star someday but had promised his mama he would finish school first. He’d be only the second Semple to get his diploma, his daddy being the first.
We were almost to the other side of the lake, probably already had fifteen fresh catfish in the metal tank at the end of the boat, when I started telling Ruddy about my uncle and his Buffy Orphans. As soon as I mentioned those silly hens, Ruddy jumped to his feet and clapped his hands, almost dumping me right into the water.
“Lord, girl, I don’t believe it. You know something about the chicken business? Man, you have got to see my daddy’s prizewinning cock, a blue-ribbon winner, twice over. Prettiest cock in the county. Maybe you could come to supper tomorrow night and take a good look at him?” Ruddy clapped his hands in excitement and then just as quickly turned a deep shade of red. He sat back down and fixed his eyes on the water. “You do know I’m talking about a rooster, don’t ya?”
I reassured him that I did, even if I did live in the city, and that I would love to see his daddy’s prizewinning bird.
Nana was not too happy about my invitation to Ruddy’s house. She said his parents barely had a pot to piss in, and she didn’t think my mama would be too happy either about me going anywhere near the Semple farm. Nana was probably right. Ruddy did not own one expensive sweater, and he certainly did not drive a convertible, unless you counted my grandfather’s tractor. And since he was born and raised in the Church of God, I could guarantee that he did not know how to dance. But I told my grandmother not to worry. I was only going to see a bird.
Susan Gregg Gilmore Page 10