Susan Gregg Gilmore

by The Improper Life of Bezellia Grove (v5)

  “Lord, child, if you must know he’s fixing that damn dock. Thing is about to float right out into the lake, and your grandfather ain’t strong enough to do it himself. But I need Samuel to stop on his way up here and get a couple of gallons of gasoline for the tractor. Your grandfather wants him to mow the yard. You got that number, Bezellia, or not?”

  Mother had written it in pencil on the wall by the telephone not long after coming back from the hospital. Nathaniel had told her to call him night or day if she needed anything. Just knowing the number was there by the phone helped her sleep at night, she said. But I didn’t need to look at those old pencil markings. I knew it by heart.

  I gave my grandmother the number and then rushed into the kitchen and told Mother and Maizelle I was meeting some old friends over at the shopping center. I told them I didn’t know when I’d be home. We might even stay for dinner and a movie. All I knew was that Samuel was leaving for Atlanta in a few weeks, and if I didn’t get to that lake, I might not ever see him again. I grabbed my mother’s keys from the nail where they were left hanging by the back door and ran to the garage without waiting for Mother or Maizelle to think of anything to say to stop me.

  As I drove toward the lake, I realized somewhere deep inside that I had no idea what I was doing, but I couldn’t turn back, not now. Something kept propelling me forward. When I pulled up to Route 171, I looked for the old man in his blue coveralls keeping watch over his collection of Quaker State motor oil. But he wasn’t there. The building was empty, and the cans of motor oil were gone. I sat at the stop sign for a moment trying to make sense of his absence, wondering if I’d made a wrong turn. My window was down, and the air seemed particularly still and quiet. It was as if even the cows had disappeared. I finally turned left and headed toward the lake, still not really knowing what I was going to do when I got there.

  Maybe I was feeling a little hungry or maybe I was stalling, still trying to come up with a plan, but just before turning onto the gravel road that led to my grandparents’ house, I pulled in front of the little corner store where Pop came early in the mornings to buy his minnows for the day’s fishing. It was an old wood-frame building that looked as though it might collapse if you sneezed real hard. Faded lettering above the front door read WATKINS BAIT AND TACKLE.

  There were some high school boys standing in front of the concrete tank that held the fresh bait. They were drinking RC colas and talking about fishing and football. Every once in a while the biggest one, with sandy brown hair, would pick up the net hanging outside the tank and run it through the water. He’d lift the minnows into the air, and just when you imagined those poor little fish, flopping about in front of their captor were about to die, he would drop the net back into the water, giving them another chance to escape.

  The boys stopped talking and stared real hard as I walked past them and opened the screen door before stepping inside to get a cold drink. The man behind the counter said I looked familiar and asked where I was headed. I reminded him that I was the Morgans’ granddaughter and was just here for a short visit. He said he’d heard my mama wasn’t doing well. Said he knew her when she was just a little girl and hated to hear that she had done gone and lost her mind. Spending time in the state hospital was no picnic, he knew that for sure, seeing how his own mama had been there a few years back.

  “For some reason always thought your little sister was the one that was kind of special that way. Wasn’t she the one that carried that baby doll around with her all the time, remember that? What she’s up to these days anyway?”

  I reassured him that my mother was doing much better and that Adelaide was actually vacationing in Italy with some friends from school. “Hmm,” he said, as if I was telling some kind of tall tale to disguise my family’s misfortune, “vacationing in Italy” being nothing more than a big-city, fancy way of lying about another tragic event.

  I grabbed a bottle of Dr Pepper from the icebox in the back of the store and a bag of potato chips and took them to the counter to pay. I thanked the man for his concern and then stepped back outside, the bright sunlight blinding me for a moment. But even with my hand shielding my eyes, I could see the boys were still there. I could hear them whispering as if they were telling a joke meant only for them. And as I stepped toward the Cadillac, I heard one of them humming the tune of “Big City Girl.” I turned my head and shot them all a scathing stare. But the three of them just laughed and took another sip of their RC colas. The big one licked his lips.

  “Stick your tongue back in your mouth. You wouldn’t even know what to do under that tree if you were ever lucky enough to get there,” I shouted at him. And then I jumped behind the steering wheel of my mother’s car and pushed the gas pedal to the floor, leaving the boys choking in a cloud of dust and me feeling more determined than ever to see Samuel Stephenson.

  But I couldn’t drive to my grandparents’ house and admit that I had come to see the black boy working on the dock. And neither Nana nor Pop would believe for a minute that I had come to see them. So I slowed the car down, making certain not to stir any dust in the road and reveal my position. I coasted a few hundred yards past the final turn to the house and then pulled the Cadillac off the road and into a field dotted with nothing but a couple of cows and some Queen Anne’s lace.

  Perched on the hood of the car, I could see Nathaniel’s old blue truck sitting in my grandparents’ driveway. I sat there for what seemed like hours, making necklaces out of dandelions and drinking my Dr Pepper. And when I had to pee, I jumped off the hood and squatted low in the field, leaving my mark like a dog declaring his territory. I picked a bouquet of Queen Anne’s lace, crawled back on top of the car, and counted the clouds floating across the sky.

  Finally, just as the sky cleared and left me nothing to look at, the sound of my grandfather’s John Deere tractor hummed in the distance, consuming the quiet of the late afternoon. I knew Samuel’s work was almost done for the day, and he’d be heading home soon. I slipped off the top of the Cadillac and walked back to the small private road that led to my grandparents’ drive. I had thought all afternoon about what I would say to Samuel when he saw me out here in the middle of nowhere, waiting for him. But now I couldn’t remember anything that made any sense. I waited some more, and just as I was growing afraid that Samuel would never finish mowing that yard, the tractor grew silent.

  I figured by now my grandmother was handing Samuel his pay for the day’s work. She may have even offered him a cold Coca-Cola and a piece of buttered corn bread. He’d surely smile and say thank you and then promptly get in his truck and head on home. And as if I was choreographing the scene myself, I saw his blue truck ease its way toward me.

  I walked into the middle of the road, and as Samuel got closer I could see that his eyes were growing wide with surprise. He just stared at me, seemingly trying to make sense of my being there. And again I found myself wondering, as I had so many times during the afternoon, if I had made a mistake coming all the way out here. But then he smiled, gently at first, and the smile grew slowly until it stretched clear across his face. He slowed the truck and stopped a few feet in front of me. I walked around to the side, yanked the door open, and climbed onto the seat next to him. And without saying more than a few words, I directed him back down the road to the sandy beach that Ruddy had introduced me to some years ago now.

  “A beach,” Samuel said in surprise. “Never would have thought of putting a beach out here on the lake.”

  “Crazy, huh?”

  “Yeah. Maybe not as crazy as seeing you here today.” And then Samuel looked at me, obviously searching for some kind of explanation. I opened the door and motioned for him to join me on the sand.

  “Yeah. That’s pretty crazy too,” I admitted. “Maizelle told me you were leaving for Atlanta soon. I don’t know. I just never had much of a chance to talk to you. I just wanted to know …” I hesitated, hoping that Samuel would somehow reassure me, that he would let me know he was glad to see me. But he
didn’t. And just when I thought he might not say anything, he turned and looked out toward the water.

  “I’ve missed you too,” he said. Just hearing those few words left me feeling relaxed and reassured that I had done the right thing.

  “You know, nothing has ever turned out the way I thought it would,” I began. “And I don’t know why I should expect it to now. But I’m tired of trying to convince myself that I don’t love you, Samuel. I just don’t think that’s ever going to be possible. And I don’t care what anybody thinks.” Samuel took my hand in his and held it so carefully, almost as if he was afraid it would break.

  “But you do care, Bezellia. Why else would you have snuck all the way out here if you didn’t care? You do care. I care. Everybody’s going to care.” And then he kissed me on the cheek and smiled. “Doesn’t mean I don’t love you.”

  Before I could make sense of anything Samuel had just said, I heard the sound of twigs snapping behind us. At first I didn’t think much of it; maybe it was just a deer passing by. But the sound grew louder and more persistent, and I turned around to find the three boys from the corner market standing about fifty feet behind us.

  “Well, ain’t this cute. A little vanilla and chocolate right here in front of us,” said the large boy with the sandy brown hair, the one the other two called Ritchie. “You think the two of them know this is a family beach?” he asked, and then he started grinning.

  His buddies shook their heads as if to tell us we should have known better than to come here. Samuel didn’t say a word, but he stood up and pulled me behind him, seemingly unafraid of the three boys moving toward us.

  “Listen, boy, I don’t think you ought to be touching that girl like that. Might get you into some awful trouble, and I sure would hate to see anything happen to you way out here,” Ritchie said. But Samuel didn’t flinch, and I could see the muscles in his entire body tighten.

  “You boys do know that there’s a war going on right now, don’t ya? I just got back from there. Served in the United States Marine Corps. And even though it’s clear you three don’t have what it takes to be a Marine, I think you need to address me with a little more respect. Sure would hate to have to teach you a lesson … way out here.”

  “No nigger talks to me like that,” Ritchie said and moved directly in front of us, his two buddies following close behind him. Samuel pushed me out of the way, and I fell onto the sand. Ritchie raised his right arm and swung at Samuel. But Samuel stepped to the side, missing his blow, and just as quickly pulled his own arm back and hit the boy directly in the stomach, landing him flat on his butt. With their friend on the ground, the other two jumped on Samuel, punching and swinging. So many arms were flying in the air I couldn’t tell who was hitting and who was getting hit.

  Ritchie climbed to his feet and scrambled to reach a branch left lying on the beach. I saw him raise the branch above his head and aim for Samuel’s back. And somewhere in that moment, I found a rock. I don’t even remember how it got there. Maybe somehow Maizelle had shown me where it was, but I saw it hurtle threw the air and strike that boy’s head. I saw him fall, and for minute I wondered if I had killed him. For a minute, I wished I had.

  One of the other boys jumped off Samuel and came toward me.

  “Looks like you need to be taught a lesson too,” he said, and he reached for my shirt and tore it open, exposing my chest. He pushed me down on the sand and climbed on top of me. I was screaming and scratching, but all I could see was Ritchie, who had made his way to his feet and was now standing over Samuel with the branch raised above his head, this time striking Samuel across the back. Samuel fell still, blood from his forehead coloring the white sand red. I screamed even louder, begging for help, as the other two boys came toward me. I could smell their stinky, sweaty skin on top of me. And as I felt my pants being tugged down my legs, I heard a shotgun being pumped and loaded, and then the sound of my grandmother’s voice.

  “I sure would hate to shoot you boys, seeing how I’ve known all three of you since you were in diapers. But if you don’t get off my granddaughter, I’m not going to have much of a choice, as far as I can tell.” Thank God, there she was, my grandmother, standing on the edge of the sandy beach in her ratty old chenille bathrobe, her hair pinned in curls against her head, and a twelve-gauge shotgun resting on her shoulder.

  The three boys climbed to their feet and, without taking their eyes off my grandmother, stumbled back among the trees beyond the beach mumbling something about the crazy old woman and her nigger-loving granddaughter. My grandmother kept her shotgun pointed at her target until she could no longer see the boys, and then she turned her attention to Samuel, who was lying motionless in the sand.

  I crawled next to him and lifted his head into my lap. His forehead was split open, and the blood was now spreading onto my pants. My grandmother knelt down beside him and put her fingers against his throat.

  “He’s good and alive, but you better get him back to Nashville. A doctor’s gonna need to put some stitches in his head,” she told me and pulled an old dish towel from her robe pocket and tied it tightly around Samuel’s forehead. Then she turned her attention to me. “Bezellia Grove, what the hell are you doing up here?” But I just sat there, not really knowing what to say. “I swear to heaven and back that you and your mama think you can do whatever the hell you feel like, no matter what it does to anybody else around you. But I tell you what. You cannot bring your colored boyfriend up here. Shit, are you crazy?

  “Now the two of you better get on your way real fast, before there is more trouble. I’ll stay here with him, and you take his pickup to my house and then get that damn Cadillac and get on back here. After you’re on your way, I’ll give Nathaniel a call so he knows what happened. Poor man, don’t you think he’s been through enough?”

  “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen,” I muttered.

  “Sweetie,” she said, but she said it with all the sarcasm she could muster, “I think it’s best if you don’t ever come back to the lake. People around here don’t forget things too quickly. And they’re not likely to forget this anytime soon.”

  I nodded my head to let her know that I understood, that I would never come back. And even though I was crying so hard I could barely see, I managed to get the Cadillac back to the beach like my grandmother had told me to do. She helped me lift Samuel into the backseat, and even before I got to the interstate, my body was shaking so hard I could barely keep the car straight on the road. Samuel moaned and opened his eyes; his face was so swollen he didn’t look much like himself. I told him not to worry. I was taking him home.

  As I slowed to turn onto the interstate, I saw the man in the blue coveralls standing inside the gas station, stacking a new collection of Quaker State motor oil. His display was looking perfect, just like it always did. He stopped for a moment and looked at me and shook his head as if he already knew what I had been doing in his hometown, on his family beach. I slowly made my turn and headed back to Nashville.

  I guess Nana was right after all. Samuel was right. Nathaniel was right. Maizelle was right. Hell, even Mother had been right a long time ago when she could remember that cashmere and convertibles were all a girl like me needed in life. Maybe I was meant to know nothing else.

  BEZELLIA GROVE DIES AT 93

  Bezellia Louise Grove, local writer and philanthropist, died Thursday morning. She was 93.

  Best known for her short story collections like Deep in the Grove and She Called Me Sister, Grove deftly depicted the dark and sometimes tragic elements of affluent Southern life.

  In 2038, the Nashville native, whose family’s own rich history had been traced to the city’s first settlement, wrote Our Final Kiss after her personal discovery of her foremother’s diaries in the attic of her family home. Grove said the more than two-hundred-fifty-year-old diaries proved, once and for all, what she had long believed to be true—that her ancestor was a brave and fearless woman. It was her only novel and her final work.

/>   A great philanthropist, Grove gave generously, of both time and money, to public schools and libraries throughout the metropolitan area, particularly to those east of the river. Now under construction, a new community library will open this fall on Trinity Lane bearing her name, according to the Nashville Public Library’s executive director.

  Grove established and funded the Samuel Stephenson Memorial Scholarship, named for one of the city’s most successful African-Americans, who served as mayor in the late 1990s. She also donated the seed money for the first local chapter of the National Organization for Women and remained an avid supporter of women’s rights both locally and nationwide.

  Although Grove never married and led a relatively quiet life, it is believed that she was the inspiration for the 1970 country music sensation “Big City Girl” by Ruddy Semple. Grove repeatedly denied claims that she was Semple’s muse, although he was known to spend afternoons on the Grove Hill estate when he was in town recording.

  Grove died in the home that has belonged to her family for more than two hundred years, and private services will be held there Saturday afternoon.

  She is survived by her sister, Adelaide Elizabeth Grove Ewing, of New York City, and two nieces, Bezellia Louise Davis, of Washington, D.C., and Elizabeth Maizelle Kilkelly, of Los Angeles, as well as four great-nieces and two great-nephews.

  The Nashville Register

  final edition

  MAY 15, 2044

  a cognizant v5 original release september 16 2010

  acknowledgments

  It took coming home again to find Bezellia Grove. But it took a family to find her voice. I want to thank the following people for loving us both.

  Shaye Areheart, my beloved editor, whose kindness was always appreciated but whose faith in me was life changing.

  Christine Kopprasch, who has never missed a step and now continues on this journey with me.