Susan Gregg Gilmore

by The Improper Life of Bezellia Grove (v5)

  Then I told her about meeting Samuel Stephenson under the cherrybark oaks and offering up my heart and my virginity not more than a few hours after my own father died, not more than a few hours after saying good-bye to Ruddy. But I loved Samuel. I knew that. I also knew that my mother would die if she caught her daughter with a black man, and I couldn’t help but wonder if loving him like that in my own backyard was as much to punish her as to satisfy me.

  I told her everything about Sarah Stanton Miller and Gloria Steinem and their fight for equality, and Mitchell Franklin and his passion for afternoon sex. I told her about Samuel going to Vietnam and even showed her Adelaide’s beautifully knitted sack and the letters she had found underneath my mother’s bathroom sink. Cornelia took it all in, never interrupting to add an opinion or offer advice. She let me talk until there was really nothing more to say, and then she looked at me and smiled.

  “Man, Bee. You just got home a couple of days ago.”

  We both started laughing again, and Cornelia knocked the gearshift with her right knee. The car started rolling forward, and we both laughed even harder.

  “You know, Bumble Bee,” Cornelia finally said as she turned back to face the front of the car. “It’s easy to get lost in that big name of yours. But I got news for you. There’s a lot of people out there who don’t care whether you’re Bezellia Grove or Ophelia Rose. You know what I mean?”

  But I just stared blankly, offering no sign of understanding.

  “Okay, judging by that look on your face, I assume you don’t. Let me spell it out for you in plain English. You do not have to do whatever you think it is a Grove is supposed to do. Take a lesson from Adelaide. Everybody thinks she’s a little odd. Hell, I think she’s the sanest one in that big old house of yours. Live your own life—not your mother’s—no matter what anybody thinks. I don’t want to be my mother probably any more than you want to be yours. I’ve seen my own mommy dearest all of about two times since I’ve been in Boston. She’s too absorbed in her stupid paintings to pay me the least bit of attention.

  “But, more importantly,” she went on, and she put both hands on the steering wheel, “what you need to understand is that you really can ‘forget all your troubles and forget all your cares, and go downtown. Things’ll be great when you’re downtown.’”

  “What?” I stopped sniffling and started laughing again.

  “That’s right, Baby Bee. Petula Clark said it best. And that’s where we’re headed right now—downtown.” My cousin shifted into first gear and stepped on the accelerator. The car lurched forward, the tires screeching as we headed down the drive. I glanced back at the house and saw Adelaide’s face in her bedroom window, her nose pressed against the glass. She waved good-bye. I blew her a kiss, and she pretended to catch it in her hand.

  Cornelia turned a sharp left out of our driveway and headed toward town. She rolled down her window, and I rolled down mine. Our hair was blowing in the wind, lashing across our faces. Cornelia turned the radio up even louder. We sang along with Elvis Presley and Carole King, making up words when we didn’t know the lyrics, her little yellow Beetle vibrating to the beat of the music.

  We sped past the country club and then past the Hunts’ house. Cars were parked along both sides of the street. Mrs. Hunt was having another party. Apparently her husband had forgiven her or never really cared that much in the first place that she had spent countless evenings curled up in my father’s arms. We passed churches and restaurants and Centennial Park.

  Nashville had dubbed itself the Athens of the South long before I was born and built its very own Parthenon in the middle of this park just to prove it. It looked exactly like the one in Greece except this one was perfect, not standing in ruins. Mother had taken me there when I was five for a painting class. But I thought the giant marble statues were scary and stood whimpering behind my mother’s back instead of brushing paint on my canvas like the other kids did. Mother marched me out to the car and spanked my bottom, said she hadn’t brought me down here to act like a baby in front of her friends. I hated this park.

  Cornelia turned the radio up a little louder and drove a little faster, and I started feeling a little better. Dimly lit office buildings and car dealerships blended into bars and tattoo parlors. Cruising downtown with the windows open and the radio blaring, I felt as bright and electric as all the lights and neon signs distinguishing one honky-tonk from another. I leaned my head out the window and let out a scream.

  We passed Tootsies Orchid Lounge and The Stage. People were crowded on the sidewalks, trying to press into one bar or another, the music of different bands drifting into the street. We stopped by Rotiers on the way home to eat a cheeseburger and fried dill pickles. A couple of boys from Vanderbilt lingered near our table and asked if we wanted some company. Cornelia scooted to the right, making just enough room for the boy with the dark brown hair to sit next to her. She cocked her head to the left and indicated that I should do the same. But I didn’t budge. I wasn’t looking for a college boy with a drawer full of cashmere to try to make me feel better.

  “Sorry, boys,” Cornelia said with such sugary affection that they both lingered a little longer hoping her friend would change her mind. But thankfully my cousin tossed her hair behind her back and grabbed her purse, indicating that we would be heading on our way, alone.

  We got back in the car and just sat there for a few minutes, listening to the static on the radio, neither one of us bothering to find a better station. And somewhere beneath that constant, steady sound, I could still hear my mother crying, pleading with me not to send her away, and Samuel begging me to write him back. I rolled my window down and turned the radio up even louder. I told them both to hush, but they just kept making noise in my head.

  I turned the knob to the left and then to the right, flipping the radio from one station to the next until an anonymous, velvet-toned DJ interrupted the static. A surprise was coming up next, he promised, a brand-new song from a boy who grew up just down the road a ways. “Here it is, folks, ‘Big City Girl.’”

  Cornelia swatted my hand, pushing it away from the radio. “This ought to be good,” she said with a full, bold laugh.

  The sound coming from the dashboard was slow and mournful. But with the first stroke of the guitar, the tempo and mood changed, and I knew that the voice that filled that little yellow Beetle had filled my head before.

  “She wore pearls around her neck and went to fancy schools

  She had pretty long legs that made the boys drool

  She wasn’t looking for a country boy with holes in his jeans

  But then she wasn’t looking for love when she done found me.”

  “Hey, this is pretty good … for country music,” Cornelia shouted over the radio, slapping her thigh to the beat.

  “Shut up,” I popped and waved my left hand in her face, letting her know that I really meant it this time. But the voice inside the radio wouldn’t hush. He just kept on singing.

  “She’d whisper French right in my ear, but it was all Greek to me

  And I just wanted to meet her underneath the old oak tree.

  And when we met one dark and starry night

  That girl named Bezellia made me feel so right.”

  Cornelia started hooting and hollering and now slapping me on the arm. “Oh, my God. Oh, my God” were the only words that came streaming out of her mouth. She screamed again and pounded the steering wheel with both hands. “Way to go, girl!” She swerved into the next lane, and I smacked her hard on the arm and told her to shut up before she got us both killed.

  “I can’t believe he did that,” I shrieked. “I can’t believe he used my name. Under a tree. Making him feel so right. Lord, when my mother hears this. Shit! She’s going to kill me. Or at the very least send me to some Baptist reform school up in Kentucky. Damn it, if I could get my hands on him, I’d tie him up to that damn oak tree.”

  I could barely complete one thought before another crowded its way inside my
head. I couldn’t help but wonder if Ruddy was standing on a stage somewhere right now, maybe right here in downtown Nashville, with that big old smile painted across his face, strumming his guitar, singing about our secret night down on the beach. I felt completely exposed, naked as a little jaybird, as Maizelle used to say when she plucked me from the bathtub. Except now, the whole world was looking.

  “What’s your problem, Bee? This is so cool. You’re gonna be famous—the girl who inspired Ruddy Semple’s first big hit. You’re his muse. Like June Carter.”

  “Lord, Cornelia, have you forgotten who my mother is? She’s not going to want me to be anybody’s muse, especially not some guitar-picking country boy’s.”

  “Shit, Bee. Quit worrying. You and I both know that your mother doesn’t care one iota about country music. And I seriously doubt where she’s going tomorrow they’re going to be sitting around listening to the radio. Besides, I thought you liked Ruddy.”

  “This isn’t about liking him or not. He had no right to tell the whole world that we were fooling around underneath a tree. Shit, everybody’s gonna think we did it.” By now my voice was sounding so loud and shrill that my own head was starting to hurt.

  “See, I think you’re looking at this all wrong. You’ve gone and gotten yourself a big singing star. That’s a good thing. And so what if people think you did it? It’s not like you’re a virgin.”

  “What if Samuel hears this? What if he hears this stupid song while he’s fighting in some jungle somewhere? Oh, God. Shit, Ruddy.”

  “Now see, there you go again, just thinking about this all wrong. Look on the bright side. One day Ruddy will be so rich and famous that the two of you can live in a big house and you can hire Samuel to be your Nathaniel. Then you can have him around you all the time.”

  “Shut up, Cornelia! Shit, for crying out loud, I cannot believe you of all people said that. Just shut up.”

  “Hell’s bells, I’m just messing with you, Bee.”

  But I sat still and quiet, refusing to even look at my cousin.

  “Oh shit,” she said, breaking the silence, “you’re still in love with him. Samuel, that is. You are. I mean really in love with him.” Cornelia stared at my face, searching for something to convince her that she had misunderstood.

  “Nothing new. I’ve told you that,” I quipped.

  “Yeah, but I just thought you liked-him-loved-him not LOVED him. Look, Bee, you know I don’t think there’s anything wrong with the two of you having a thing for each other. There’s nothing wrong with you two liking-loving each other or whatever you want to call it.

  “But let’s face facts, a real relationship ain’t never going to work. Not here. Not now. Hell, twenty miles outside of town there are still little private clubs where all the members like to dress in white robes and wear funny cone-shaped hats on their heads, if you know what I mean.”

  “Do you even know how to shut up?” I cried. “And just for the record, you’re the one who told me a long time ago that ours was a Shakespearean love, one to last for all time.”

  “Fine, I’ll shut up. But just remember how Romeo and Juliet ended. It wasn’t very pretty, as I recall.”

  We drove the rest of the way home in silence, neither one of us saying another word. I leaned my head out the window, still trying to muffle the sounds of Ruddy’s voice rising above his guitar, my mother screaming at the kitchen table, and Samuel crying out in the dark—asking where I was, why I didn’t write, why I didn’t love him anymore, and why I had done it with another boy underneath an oak tree.

  chapter fourteen

  Mother left without putting up much of a fuss. She still didn’t understand why she needed to go. Doctors at a place like that, she whimpered with tears pooling in her eyes, would never understand a woman like her. But Uncle Thad told her that at the end of the day there wasn’t much difference between one drunk and another, and then he swiftly led her to the car, not giving her another chance to argue or resist.

  Nathaniel sat behind the steering wheel, and Uncle Thad took his place in the backseat, his arm snug around my mother’s shoulder, her head resting on his chest. I waved good-bye until the car disappeared onto Davidson Road, and then I stood there a little longer, wondering what more I could have said to comfort my mother. Uncle Thad had thought it best that I stay at Grove Hill with Adelaide and Maizelle. They would surely need me at a time like this, he said. I had nodded as though I understood, but now I felt completely helpless. And I couldn’t help but wonder if I had done the right thing. Maybe Mother really didn’t belong in a place like that. Maybe she needed to be here, surrounded by the only people left who really cared about her. Maizelle appeared beside me and wrapped her thick, dark arm around my waist. She had tears in her eyes too.

  Adelaide fled to the den and flipped on the television set, turning the volume up so loud that it almost hurt my ears. I stood right next to her so she had no choice but to hear me, and I told her that we could walk down to the creek a little bit later and make some more mud pies if she wanted. With the light rain we’d had during the night, the soil would be just perfect for cooking up a fresh batch. She scrunched her shoulders and nodded her head but then picked up her knitting so she was certain to have another excuse to avoid looking at me. I walked over to Mother’s desk and pulled out a fresh pad of white paper and a ballpoint pen. I told Adelaide I’d be in the kitchen if she needed anything, but she just turned her back to me and stared at the TV.

  The smell of freshly brewed coffee met me at the kitchen door. And even though I still didn’t care for the bold, bitter taste, I held the metal percolator in my hand and poured some of it into one of Mother’s heavy white mugs. I sat at the table with the mug in one hand and Mother’s pen in the other and struggled to find the words I needed to explain that I would not be returning to Hollins in September. Family matters demanded my attention at home, I began, but someday soon I hoped to return to the school that I loved so dearly.

  And when I was done, I sat there and stared at the next sheet of blank paper, knowing that there was more to say but not certain where to start. The coffee had grown cold, yet I still considered pouring myself another cup. Maizelle walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. She filled a glass with orange juice and set it down in front of me, thought it would be more to my liking, she said. Then she picked up the mug and drained what was left down the kitchen sink. There was laundry to do, she added with a bit of a sigh, and I could find her in the basement. She slowly crept down the back staircase, balancing a basket full of dirty clothes in her hands and leaving me to stare at the same piece of paper.

  I picked up the pen and began a letter to Ruddy. I’m not really sure why, except I wanted him to know that I had enjoyed spending time with him, especially our afternoons floating about in my grandfather’s rowboat, checking fising lines for fresh catch and talking about music and roosters and everything in between. Those were perfect moments as the sun fell behind the water, and it felt as though we were the only ones on the lake to see it.

  I told him I knew now that he really was going to be a big country music star just like Johnny Cash. I’d even heard him singing right there in Cornelia’s car. I really appreciated him being such a gentleman that night on Mount Juliet’s sandy beach, not doing, as he said himself, everything God intended a man and woman to do. I only wished he hadn’t let the rest of the world, including my mother, think that we had.

  Then I wrote to Mitchell Franklin and admitted that even though I enjoyed the sex I still thought he was an ass. I wished him the very best with his research and dissertation, but thanks to him, I was no longer considering a major in English. I told him I was still writing and had recently finished a short story about a young, ambitious professor who hid behind a long list of honors and degrees while he secretly seduced his female students. He eventually fathered nearly three hundred children, who all shared their father’s brownish red hair and an unusual affection for Led Zeppelin.

  I even
wrote to Tommy Blanton. I wanted him to know that standing behind the coatrack in Mrs. Dempsey’s sixth-grade classroom with his lips pressed against mine was the first time, in all of my life, that I had felt truly special. My quest for real love had begun at that moment, even if I had been too young to fully understand that then. And although I doubted he had ever thought about it too much, I wanted him to understand that those simple kisses had changed me forever. I would never be able to settle for anything less than a true and lasting love.

  And finally, I wrote to Samuel. I told him that his letters had just arrived and that after all this time I understood if he no longer loved me. But I thought of him constantly and could still hear him saying my name for the very first time that day we talked in the barn. My name had never been spoken with such warmth and tenderness, nor had it ever sounded as beautiful as it did then.

  I told him about my first year at college and walking to the top of Tinker Mountain and crying his name out loud. I wondered if somehow he had heard me. I liked to believe that he had. And when I was finished writing all that I had to say, I sprayed each page with some of my mother’s perfume, hoping that even the faintest scent of May Rose would carry Samuel back to the creek, to that grassy bank underneath the cherrybark oaks.

  As I sealed the last envelope, I could hear Maizelle slowly walking up the basement steps. I could tell she was tired and her aging body was aching by her grunting and moaning as she set her foot down on each step. I knew I should run to greet her and shift the load of clean clothes into my hands. I should urge her to stop and rest for a while. But I hurriedly gathered all of the letters on the table, keeping Samuel’s clutched next to my chest, and ran to the mailbox at the end of the drive. And there, in that old metal box, I left my most secret thoughts to be carried away. Then I walked back to the house and turned my attention to Grove Hill.