Michelle laughed. “Did she name it Oscar?”
“It’s a female named Lady something. She calls it Chen Ling. I call it Chitling.”
“I feel so much better now that you’re back home. I hated it when you were off all alone, you were so unhappy, and I always worried so much about you.”
That got my attention. “About me? I liked being alone.”
“I know. That’s what worried me. I think you’re doing much better now that you’ve got Grandad and Grandma close by, and of course, Aunt Bitty.”
Bitty isn’t really her aunt, like I’m not Clayton and Brandon’s aunt, but since it’s always so confusing and troublesome to go through the kinship rituals, even distant relatives are called aunt or uncle. Unless they’re disliked. Then they aren’t called at all, but avoided if possible.
“Well,” I said, “I’m glad you feel better. You may have to come visit me in Whitfield.”
Even Michelle, who didn’t grow up at all in Mississippi, knows that Whitfield is the state insane asylum. Of course they call it something else now, rehabilitation, or mental health facility, or some other name that really means the same thing. You’re there because “you ain’t right” in the head, whether through no fault of your own or self-inflicted substance abuse.
“Of all people in the world, you’re not one I’ll ever have to worry about checking into a mental facility of any kind,” Michelle said firmly, and I sighed.
“That’s too bad. I was looking forward to a little room service.”
When we hung up, I felt able to face almost anything, and I hope she had reassurance that I’m never too far away from her. Sometimes I make the mistake of thinking of her as she was at three, or six, or fifteen, then I remember she’s nearly thirty and on her own, and the love I had for her as a child has only grown, too. It’s the nice thing about children. Mothers tend to forget most of the bad things sooner or later. The good things are forever.
Bitty joined me on the porch, and sat down in the wicker rocker next to me and handed me a Bloody Mary. “It’s fresh,” she said. “Brandon took a bartending class.”
“Is that part of pre-law?”
“Must be mandatory. Every lawyer I’ve ever known can make any drink you name.”
“So, all’s well?”
“It will be. I’m going to have a talk with his professor to see if we can work out a way for Clayton to make up the classes he missed, but if we can’t, then he’ll fail the course. He’s lucky they’re not considering expelling him.”
“This is very good,” I said about the drink, “just spicy enough without being too spicy.”
Bitty grinned. “Brandon said he learned how to make these for old ladies at Oxford garden club functions.”
“I don’t know whether to be insulted, or wish I belonged to the Oxford Garden Club.”
We sat there for a little while, chatting aimlessly about our kids and the pretty weather, and everything except Philip Hollandale and Sherman Sanders. The ceiling fan stirred cool air, birds sang outside, and wonderful smells still came from the kitchen even though Sharita had left a few hours earlier.
For some reason, I thought about Melody Doyle saying what she had the night before. “How well do you know Melody?” I asked Bitty, who was stirring the last of her drink with the celery stalk.
“Um, not really well. She’s so young, you know. But her family’s always lived here. For a while she lived down in Georgia, went there after school, met a man and I guess that didn’t work out so well. Marcy brought her to a Diva meeting, and since two of our members had moved, and since her mother was Maybelle Overton, we invited her to join us.”
“Maybelle Overton . . . you know, I’d forgotten about her. Cancer, wasn’t it?”
Bitty nodded. “Just terrible. She went so quick, and Melody just a little thing. Maybelle’s mother raised her. Did as well as she could by her, but I always thought she was a scary old lady. Dressed in long black dresses and wore her hair pulled back into that tight bun.”
“I remember her. She tapped me with the end of her cane once for talking in church.”
We both laughed at that. Sunday morning church meetings had seemed to go on forever when we were kids, and Bitty and I used to try and sneak out if we got permission to sit in the back. My sister Emerald always sat up front with Mama and Daddy, dressed in her prim little dress and shiny shoes, with ribbons in her pretty blond hair and her hands folded in her lap. I rarely made it to church without getting dirt on my dress, and ribbons never stayed long in my unruly hair. Next to Emerald, I always looked like a cartoon character anyway. I can attest to the fact that there are three-hundred-sixty-eight bricks visible in the wall of the store next door to the church, in case you get stuck sitting in the first pew. There’s a big window by that pew. I still think Emerald figured out how to sleep through the sermons with her eyes open.
“When are the boys due to leave for Florida?” I asked casually, not that I was anxious for them to go or anything, it’s just that two more cars had pulled up outside and loud music rattled all six chimneys.
“Oh, they’re not going this year. Clayton needs to learn consequences for his actions, and I told them they can both stay home. Besides, I like having them around. It’s been too quiet lately without them, don’t you think?”
By now my eyes had crossed and my head vibrated like a tuning fork to the beat of a song with lyrics something like “don’t you mess with me” and a few other words I’d rather not repeat.
“Yes,” I mumbled when I could speak without screaming, “much too quiet. How long is Spring Break?”
“Ten days. They’re coming back for the pilgrimage, though. They can’t miss that. It’s the highlight of the year, and they’re always so handsome in their uniforms, don’t you think?”
Photos of Clayton and Brandon in gray Confederate uniforms sat atop the mantel in the living room. And hung on the wall in the living room. And on the wall above the landing at the top of the stairs. And in the hallway. And in Bitty’s room, and—well, suffice it to say, there are photos of them in every stage of growing up, wearing Confederate uniforms with officers’ hats and swords. There have been a few incidents with the swords over the years, but since most of them are too dull to slice bread, nothing more serious than bruises inflicted by the spontaneous—and unauthorized—battle reenactments.
“Handsome,” I said truthfully, “very handsome.”
An idea began to form in my brain. I knew if I stayed with Bitty much longer I’d be a candidate for Whitfield’s caring embrace, so I decided to take my own spring break. With the permission of Jackson Lee, of course. Just in case. So I went to see him in his office right after lunch and before a complete melt-down.
Jackson Lee, either convinced by the nervous tic under my right eye or the way my head occasionally jerked to one side, agreed that Clayton and Brandon were indeed quite capable of monitoring Bitty’s unfettered conversation.
“Not quite as well as you can, of course,” he said, smiling a little, “but I’ll talk to them so they know how important it is that she doesn’t say anything inappropriate.”
“Every other word out of Bitty’s mouth is inappropriate. I was thinking along the lines of incriminating,” I said, then added, “Talk to Brandon. He’s taking pre-law classes. Besides, he has the calmer nature of the two. Which isn’t saying a whole lot.”
Jackson Lee grinned. “I’m familiar with Clayton and Brandon. They’re just three years behind my youngest son.”
I’d forgotten Jackson Lee has three boys of his own. The oldest must be around thirty-five by now, the youngest, twenty-five. They still live up in Memphis, and all have jobs and two are married with kids, according to Bitty.
“That’s just chronologically,” I said. “Maturity-wise, Clayton and Brandon are still about sixteen much of the time.”
“Well, so’s their mama. It’s not a bad trait to have occasionally; it just gets a little inconvenient when there are problems.”
Jackson Lee walked me to the door of his office. “Use that stun gun correctly, and you won’t need any of the other stuff.”
I really like Jackson Lee. He’s practical.
So Jackson Lee had a talk with Clayton and Brandon, I told Bitty that I thought she and her boys needed some private time together, and I packed up my little carry-on case and went back to Cherryhill. It was like the difference between Oz and Kansas. The phrase “There’s no place like home” kept going around and around in my head, and I truly appreciated what Dorothy must have felt waking up in her own bed again to black and white sanity instead of Technicolor insanity. Cute little Munchkins aside, there hadn’t been a single attraction in the Emerald City that justified one more moment in Oz.
Mama and Daddy were delighted to see me, and even Brownie greeted me at the door with a degree of enthusiasm only slightly more than that exhibited by France greeting the Nazi invasion. I felt truly welcome.
“I don’t suppose he’s passed my emerald earring yet?” I asked Mama, and as I expected, the answer was No. I sighed. A good earring, gone forever.
Apparently, the official arrival of Spring summons a new wardrobe in the Truevine household, as Mama wore cotton instead of wool, and Daddy and Brownie wore matching cotton tee shirts that said N’awlins in big letters. Souvenirs of their recent cruise, of course. My shirt is upstairs in my closet, a hot pink imprinted with Bourbon Street and a light pole that Daddy had chosen. He’s never quite understood the color scheme-complexion connection. Mama had tried to tactfully dissuade him, but he’d insisted I’d be lovely in it. He’d picked one out for Emerald in a bright yellow that will turn her complexion sallow. We’ll probably end up swapping if we can manage it without Daddy noticing.
Even though Cherryhill isn’t full of antiques, just old furniture, and a lot of the decoration is more thirties and fifties style from the twentieth century instead of the nineteenth like Bitty’s, it still felt so good to be home again. Floors creak under my feet in all the familiar places, the same windows stick, and I have to turn the hot water faucet on the tub in the opposite direction from where it’s supposed to turn. Michelle was right. I need to be here.
That first day back home, I helped Daddy bring up some of the old furniture from the cellar where it was stored under covers and only used during the pilgrimage, fragile pieces that’d probably soon disintegrate if used daily. A lovely chest Great-Grandmother Truevine had used when she was a little girl still had scorch marks on it, souvenirs of the fire that’d destroyed their original house. It was one of the few pieces saved, along with a few framed photographs, and other odds and ends salvaged from the charred remains and nearby family members.
“My great-great-grandmother barely had time to stash the family silver before the Yankees got here,” Daddy said, breathing a little heavily as we took a rest in the kitchen. “She buried it under the scarecrow in a just-planted cornfield. Not that it was worth that much then, just that it was all we had of any value. Rhondda Tryweryn, daughter of Griffith Jones, brought it with her when she married Dafyyd Tryweryn. That was back in the eighteenth century, before Morgan Tryweryn anglicized our surname to Truevine.”
As I listened to Daddy tell the familiar story his father had told him, and his father before him, I felt a connection to all those who’d gone before me, all the Truevines and Tryweryns, the Joneses and others. There’s something in the human soul that needs to make that connection, no matter if ancestors were common working people or royalty. It’s a promise for the future, as well as a history of the past. Southerners in particular cling to that reassurance, maybe because there have been so many attempts to eradicate or deny it. While there are those who fictionalize their family roots, the real joy is in the truth. Endurance. Survival. Knowing that despite tremendous hardships and incredible dangers, your people survived to bring you into the world. I really think most Southerners recognize and respect the shared hardships and kinships with the people once enslaved. After all, many Southerners had come here as indentured servants or were enslaved by hunger and poverty, and most Southerners never owned a slave. Only the wealthy could afford to feed another mouth. And after the war, when devastation lay all around, black and white families struggled side-by-side to survive. It took another generation for prejudice to once more supplant basic survival. In my opinion, when some people have enough food to eat and enough time to waste, it’s far too often spent unwisely.
Anyway, I helped Daddy prepare Cherryhill for the pilgrimage, brought up the heavy stands with velvet ropes to barricade certain areas, and unpacked the brochures the Historical Society had provided with the history of our house. Even though it was two weeks before the pilgrimage, I think Mama and Daddy just like to reacquaint themselves with our history. Mama has things she brought from the Crews side of the family, who had owned slaves up in Hardeman County. I’m not particularly proud of that part of our history, although I do understand it was a different era. Family legend says they were well-cared for, and hidden in the basement for the first part of the war, but after the Battle of Shiloh’s catastrophic events very close by, they were set free. Many of them even wanted to stay, since it was all they knew, but there wasn’t enough food for all. It must have been a terrible time for everyone.
Later, when I sat upstairs on the sleeping porch sipping sweet tea and watching clouds chase the sun away, I thought again about what Daddy had said. For some reason, I just knew his history lecture was connected to Philip Hollandale’s death. How, I hadn’t a clue. See how my mind works? It teases me with bits of information but never makes a connection, so all I have going around in my brain are all these unconnected pieces that make no sense at all. It’s really maddening.
Right before I fell asleep, it occurred to me that maybe the Truevines were related to the Hollandales somehow, or even Sherman Sanders. As unlikely as it’d be that no relationship had ever been mentioned, there might be some dark tidbit of history that had been long-buried in our family ancestry legends. And how on earth that connected to Generals Grant and Forrest, I hadn’t a single idea. But I intended to check it out.
Cindy Nelson seemed surprised to see me back at the museum. “Hey,” she said, “you’re getting to be a regular customer.”
I smiled. “I insist upon paying my two dollars this time. If I’m going to take up space and use museum facilities, I might as well do my part to help support it.”
Smiling back at me, Cindy took the two dollars. “Ever think about volunteering a day or two? Even once or twice a month would be wonderful. There’s just so much to do, what with the restoration and all. If I didn’t have to leave early every day to pick up my kids at school, or go to school functions, I’d probably spend a lot more time here. It’s fascinating.”
“You know,” I said, “that’s a thought. I’d hoped for a paying job, but no one seems to want a middle-aged woman whose skills range from typing to answering phones. I’m a little limited in my employability, I fear.”
Cindy assured me I’d be more than qualified for a volunteer position, but there were some paying positions available in the county clerk’s office if I was interested. I didn’t want to admit I had already tried that and been turned down, so I said I’d consider it.
“Where’s Melody today?” I asked to change the subject, and Cindy shrugged.
“She comes in just when she can. She’s working for Dr. Johnston now, you know.”
'93I remember her saying that. It’s very convenient for her, not having to drive to Memphis every day to work.”
“Melody? When did she do that?”
“Before she took the job with Dr. Johnston. Didn’t she? Maybe I misunderstood.”
“Well, I haven’t seen her since our last Diva day, s
o I could be wrong. Anyway, now she doesn’t have as much time as she used to. I think business is picking up for Dr. Johnston since he always seems to be booked when I call to get an appointment. I’ve got this spur on my heel that’s been bothering me.”
Since she was wearing sandals, Cindy showed me the spur and I agreed that it needed to be seen, then someone called her to come help move another stack of files, and she left me alone in the room with old books and ledgers. These weren’t yet copied to computers or microfiche files. The oldest ones were contained in special cases to retard deterioration, and the handwritten entries in old county ledgers are graceful, spidery loops and swirls peculiar to that century. I think that sometimes progress isn’t all that pretty or progressive.
While I flipped through entries looking for deeds or sales, or any reference to the Sanders, Truevine, and Hollandale families having done business, it occurred to me Cindy Nelson hadn’t been quite truthful. I had seen her in the museum just this past week, and Melody Doyle was here then, too. It probably meant nothing more than the forgetfulness of a busy mother and young wife, but still, it seemed a little odd that she’d say that.
My hours spent poring over local history and family roots as tangled as kudzu vines turned out to be futile. I found nothing linking the Truevine, Hollandale, or Sanders families except their burials in Hill Crest Cemetery. When I left, Cindy had already gone to pick up her kids at school, and I stopped to talk to Mrs. White, an elderly lady who belongs to the Historical Society, the museum register, and one of Holly Springs’s oldest families. We chatted for a while about the weather, she asked tactfully if Bitty was holding up well, and then we discussed the upcoming pilgrimage.
“I just hope we have decent weather for it,” Mrs. White said, “sometimes it’s so cold and stormy hardly anyone comes out. We have charity functions and donors of course, but it’s always nice to be able to put some money back into our Society funds with a lot of admission fees.”
Since I’d already heard these same concerns expressed by Bitty, I knew to say that this year would be wonderful weather and draw tourists by the droves. “And there are more houses on the tour since renovations, even without The Cedars. Walter Place is opening the cottages behind the main house this year, and that should be a huge draw.”
Dixie Divas Page 27