by Ann Tatlock
17
On Friday evening Jane returned to Pritchard Park to listen to the drums. By the time she arrived, the event was in full swing, with at least three dozen drummers beating out a syncopated rhythm. The tiny park itself was crowded, even more so than the week before, the dance floor a rolling wave of human flesh.
Jane found an open spot on one of the concrete tiers and sat down. She had come straight from the VA hospital, where Seth lay in a foul mood, unwilling to do much other than complain. She’d been there most of the afternoon and had intended to stay through the supper hour, but she’d finally had enough. She didn’t want to stay and listen to Seth grumble. Neither did she want to go home. She didn’t want to go back to the loneliness of the Penlands’ house and the pull of the liquor cabinet. She knew its warmth, and she knew its cold destruction, how one led so subtly and relentlessly to the other. She knew what was at the bottom of the bottle, because her mother had repeatedly fallen into it. Head first, no safety net, until the day she simply stopped coming up for air.
———
Peter Morrow had found her. Jane’s father, who would one day tell her all, had found his wife dead in the tub, her head resting on a pillow, her arms crossed snuggly over her chest as though she were hugging herself good-bye. She wore her favorite nightgown, the white silk, now stained a bloody black from the gashes in her wrists. Her skin was pasty, the expression on her face one of bewilderment, as though she were trying to understand what she had done. On the floor of the bathroom lay an empty bottle of valium and an almost empty bottle of bourbon. Meredith had killed herself in the Rayburn House on a Tuesday in April while Grandmother and Laney were serving the guests their lunch. She had taken her life right there under all of their noses, as though she were thumbing her nose at them and at the world at large for having forgotten her.
Laney was sent to the school to fetch twelve-year-old Jane and bring her home. Her father was too distraught and her grandmother too preoccupied with damage control to deal with Jane herself. What would become of the Rayburn House now that Meredith Morrow had committed suicide right there in one of its rooms? Would people continue to frequent the bed-and-breakfast, or would they recoil in horror, leaving the family’s main source of income to dry up?
Jane still remembered the school principal, a pale little man with a receding chin, coming to the classroom, calling her out. Laney was with him, looking uncommonly stern as she reached for Jane’s hand. As they moved through the otherwise empty hall, Jane felt sick with fear. “What’s the matter? Am I in trouble for something?” She squeezed Laney’s hand to emphasize her terror.
Laney didn’t answer right away. The principal left them with a curt nod at the school’s main exit. Laney pushed down on the steel bar and opened the door. Outside in the school yard she led Jane to a bench beneath a trio of pink dogwood trees that had only just burst into bloom. Together they sat under the aching beauty of a thousand pink blossoms as Jane waited for Laney to speak. Finally, voice trembling, Laney said, “Jane, honey, your mamma’s gone.”
Jane didn’t understand at first. All she knew was that she wasn’t in trouble, and that was good. A sigh of relief swept through her as she asked, “Where’d she go?” Where would her mother go on an early spring day such as this, with winter newly past and all the promise of unfolding color ahead?
Laney’s large black eyes throbbed with tears. She frowned and pursed her lips, struggling to speak. That’s when, for Jane, the fragile relief caved into fear once more. “When’s she coming back, Laney?”
The tears spilled over and slid down the smooth dark cheeks as Jane watched their journey curiously. “Honey,” Laney said, “your mamma’s not coming back. Not ever.”
Jane sat in stunned silence as realization dawned on her. She tilted her head back and looked up in wonder at the delicate pink petals pasted against a milky blue sky. How could there be such a thing as death in a world that offered so much beauty? How could it be that her mother was dead and would never be coming back?
She thought that she should cry, but there were no tears. Not yet, anyway. Just confusion. Jane turned back to Laney and asked, “What happened? Was there an accident?”
Laney shook her head. She gathered Jane in her arms and held her tight. Then, pulling back, she said, “I have to get you home now.”
By the time they arrived, the ambulance had come and gone. Most of the guests had retreated to their rooms or left the house in deference to the tragedy unfolding under its roof. Gram was in the kitchen, talking with two policemen and a man Jane recognized as the family lawyer.
Jane pulled her hand from Laney’s and ran to her parents’ bedroom. Her father was there, sitting in profile on the edge of the bed, cradling something against his chest. He was weeping quietly and mumbling words Jane couldn’t hear. In another moment the weeping turned to rage as he threw the empty bottle of bourbon against the bedroom wall. The last remnant of Meredith that he’d cradled to his heart now shattered into a dozen shards of glass.
“Daddy?”
Peter Morrow turned toward his daughter’s voice. Jane drew back at the bitter anguish sketched into the contours of his face. I shouldn’t be here, she thought. But to her surprise, he opened his arms. She hung back for several awkward seconds before running into them. The moment tasted bittersweet. Mamma was dead, but for the first time, Jane believed that her father might actually love her.
———
“Oh, excuse me. Sorry. Clumsy of me.”
Jane brushed a peanut out of her hair and looked up at her accidental assailant. “That’s all right. No problem. It’s pretty crowded here.”
The young man holding the bag of peanuts looked around the park. “Yeah. Great turnout, huh? I’ve never seen this place so crowded. Have you?”
Jane shook her head and shrugged. “I’ve only been here once before—”
“What’s that?” The young man squatted down to hear better over the drums.
“I said, I’ve only been here once before. I don’t actually live here in Asheville. I’m just visiting for the summer.”
“Oh yeah? Well, mind if I sit here? It looks like the boulders are all taken.”
Jane laughed and nodded at the concrete ledge beside her. “Go ahead. It’s open.”
The young man sat. For the next few minutes Jane was uncomfortably aware of his body close to hers, so close that in the gentle push and shove of the crowd their elbows occasionally touched. He was tall, with firm sun-browned legs sticking out from a pair of denim shorts and ending in a pair of tattered leather Docksiders. He wore a T-shirt with the letters UNCA emblazoned across the front. Jane wondered whether he might be a student at the university there in Asheville. He ate from a bag of peanuts, his right arm traveling methodically up and down between the bag and his mouth. He had a pleasant face, intelligent eyes behind a pair of unobtrusive glasses, and a head of wild brown curls that obviously refused to be tamed. He exuded a quiet strength, a strength that he himself seemed unaware of or perhaps disinterested in, as he absorbed the activity around him with the same enthusiasm with which he inhaled the nuts.
He looked at her once and smiled, then looked away again. She had come to the park so she wouldn’t have to be alone. But she didn’t want this either, this reminder of what it was not to be alone. This reminder of men in the world whose bodies were strong and young and healthy. Whose bodies worked and whose limbs moved at will and without thought, as though it were something to be taken for granted rather than something to be embraced with gratitude.
At the next break in the drumming, Jane decided, I’ll leave.
But before that break came, the young man turned to her and asked, “So you enjoying your stay in Asheville?”
“What? Oh yes. Very much.” Jane offered what she hoped might pass for a genuine smile. “It’s such an eclectic little town.”
“That’s a good way to put it. Where you from?”
“Troy. You probably never heard of it.”
/> “Nope. That in North Carolina?”
“Yeah. About a hundred and fifty miles east of here. There’s not much there but, well . . .” Jane shrugged. “It’s home.”
“I’m from Atlanta myself. I prefer Asheville, though.”
Jane nodded. The rhythmic drumming went on. There should be a break soon, Jane thought, and then she would cut her way through the crowd and head home.
The man beside her wadded up the now empty bag and stood. Jane felt a mixture of disappointment and relief. She pasted on another smile and looked up at him with the intention of saying Good-bye. Nice to meet you. But before she could get the words out, he nodded toward the dancers and said, “I’m going down. Want to come?”
She looked from him to the dancers and back again. “You mean, go down there and dance?”
“Sure,” he said. “But listen, I’m going to go throw this away. I’ll be right back.”
He leapt off the tier and headed for a garbage can. Jane sat momentarily paralyzed by indecision. She wanted to dance with him, and she didn’t. She felt self-conscious, yet at the same time she didn’t care what this crowd of strangers thought. And then there was Seth.
Jane looked at her engagement ring, fingered the diamond. The young man must not have noticed it.
She was in love with Seth, engaged to be married to him. But she was here and Seth was somewhere else, and maybe for a few minutes she could just have fun, just enjoy life again.
She slipped the ring off and tucked it into the pocket of her Capri pants. Then the man was there, standing in front of her, holding out his hand. She hesitated only a moment, and then she took it.
18
Sent: Saturday, June 18, 2005 11:28 AM
From: Jane Morrow
To: Diana Penland
Subject: Hello from Asheville
Hey Diana,
How’s London? The house is quiet without you, but Roscoe, Juniper, and I are enjoying one another’s company and are doing well. Okay, fairly well, except that last night I ended up giving my cell phone number to some guy I met in Pritchard Park. I can’t believe I did it. I went to listen to the drumming and ended up on the dance floor with this guy named Ted Taggert. What’s worse is that after we danced for nearly an hour—which was an absolute blast, by the way—he asked me to have dinner with him, and I said yes. We ended up eating at the Grove Arcade, and we didn’t pay the bill (Dutch treat, I insisted) until we noticed the kitchen closing up and the light being turned off.
Don’t think I’m happy about this, Diana, because I’m not. I’m in love with Seth, and I don’t intend to break my commitment to him.
I’m wondering, though, whether you happen to know Ted, or whether you know of him, since he works at the U. It’s a large campus, I realize, and you’re in different departments, but maybe you’ve come across him. He’s an assistant professor in environmental studies. His PhD is in something having to do with fish and with stream ecosystems, and though he spent an hour over dinner telling me about his studies and his work, I didn’t retain enough of it to begin to tell you anything at all. I only know that when he isn’t teaching or poking around in stream beds, he’s playing guitar with a three-piece band started by one of the other professors. They’ve actually released a CD! They call themselves the Tree-hugging Trio.
He likes to talk so, thankfully, I didn’t have to tell him much about myself. All he knows is that I’m from Troy and I’m in town house-sitting. I couldn’t bring myself to tell him about Seth, and I’m kicking myself now for that. I believe that’s called telling a lie by not telling the whole truth.
But I guess when it comes right down to it, I wanted a night away, a night of not thinking about my life. When the opportunity showed up, I took it. For a few hours I remembered how it felt to be young and alive. But I should have stopped there and not given Ted the impression I would see him again. Now I’ve opened up for myself a pretty can of worms. I feel awful for not having told him about Seth to begin with. And to think I did this behind Seth’s back. Last night it was fun; this morning it leaves me feeling sick.
Okay, so help me out with this problem, will you? Tell me what to do, how to get out of it politely if Ted calls. Maybe my old pre-Seth luck will hold out and he won’t call. That would make it easiest all around.
Love,
Jane
———
Sent: Saturday, June 18, 2005 6:18 PM
From: Diana Penland
To: Jane Morrow
Subject: RE: Hello from Asheville
Jane,
So what’s the problem? I don’t consider meeting a nice, intelligent young man a problem. Instead, I’d call that crazy good luck. So you gave him your phone number. Of course you did. You’d have been an idiot not to. Yes, there’s Seth. I realize that. But listen, don’t be a martyr. Don’t sacrifice yourself on the altar of commitment. If you and Seth were already married, that would be different. But you’re not. You are still free to pursue another direction with your life. To answer your question, I don’t know Ted. But he sounds like someone I would like to know, and someone you ought to know. So when he calls, by all means, see him, talk with him, get to know him. Give him—and yourself—a chance.
Listen, I’m not at all saying you should dump Seth. And I’m certainly not saying you should dump him because he’s disabled, though let’s be honest here, it does change the situation, and it changes it into something you didn’t sign up for when you agreed to marry him. But if you still want to marry him, all right, it’s up to you.
What I think you should understand is this: You wouldn’t have given Ted your phone number if you hadn’t wanted to, right? If you hadn’t been attracted to him, you could have easily skipped on the dinner invitation. You know, “Thanks but no thanks. And by the way, I’m engaged.” But you went and you had a good time, and maybe that’s the first clue that you’re ready to move on.
Hey, I may be a woman of science, but I also happen to be an incorrigible romantic. We only have one chance to get it right. Well, okay, there’s always divorce, but why not try to get it right on the first go-round? Saves a lot of time, money, and heartache when you do. And listen, Jane, no guilt. You wanted to feel young and alive because you are young and alive. And you deserve to be happy, just as we all do.
Must dash. Carl and I are getting ready for dinner with some of his co-workers. London is fabulous; more about that later.
For now, I’m thinking of you and sending love.
Diana
19
This your room, Truman?”
Truman looked up from the newspaper in his lap and smiled at Jane, who stood in the open doorway. “This is it. Come on in. Were you looking for me or just happening by?”
“I was looking for you.”
“Well, you found me.” He waved toward the unoccupied vinyl chair that matched his own. “Have a seat.”
Jane sat down and looked briefly around the room. His was one of the private rooms consisting of a single bed, a chest of drawers, two chairs, a TV, and a couple of standard-issue prints on the walls, cheap-motel style landscapes. Few things in the room spoke of Truman Rockaway and his life, other than a couple of medical books on the dresser and a framed photograph of a young woman wearing pearls.
Jane studied the photo curiously, wondering whether it might be Maggie. “Is that . . . ?”
“My mother,” Truman said. “When she was young.”
“Ah.” Jane nodded. “She was very pretty.”
“Yes, she was. I don’t have many photos of her. It was Mrs. Evans who paid for the sitting for her, a birthday gift, I believe it was. She even let Mamma borrow the necklace for the picture.”
“Very nice.”
Truman smiled. “Have you been visiting with Seth?” he asked.
“Briefly. His parents are here this weekend.”
“And you don’t like them?”
“Oh no,
don’t get me wrong. I love them. We get along great.”
“Well?”
Jane shrugged. “I try to give them space. You know, time together. Besides . . .”
“Besides what?”
“It’s hard sometimes. Being with them, I mean. Jewel used to look at me with love and pride. Now she looks at me with pity. When Seth is released from here in a couple of months, they’ll be taking him home to Troy. So today they were talking about the changes they’re making to the house. You know, making it wheelchair accessible and all. Jewel is going to retire to take care of Seth full-time.”
“And?”
“Well, it’s as though I’m not in the picture anymore. Like we never had a wedding planned. I’m beginning to lose hope, Truman.”
“Hope is one thing we must never lose, Jane.”
“I suppose. Unless in fact the situation truly is hopeless.” She gave a small, sad laugh.
“I don’t think your situation with Seth is hopeless.”
“My best friend Diana thinks I ought to just move on. Seth’s parents seem to think the same thing. And come on, let’s face it, Seth wants me to find someone else. He told me so.”
Truman folded the paper and rubbed his chin. “I believe we had this conversation before, didn’t we, Jane?”
Jane looked away. “I guess we did. Obviously, I’m going around in circles. I can’t seem to find the place to settle. I don’t know what to do.”
“What do you want to do?”
What did she want to do? She thought of the previous night, of dancing to a phalanx of drummers in the middle of Pritchard Park with a man named Ted Taggert. She had given herself over to the rhythm, to the hypnotic pull of the drums, and she had felt . . . well, she had felt what she hadn’t felt in a long time. Happy. Carefree. She had laughed! The drumming drew her in, deeper and deeper, until she was not simply listening to the music, she was the music. She was one with the drums, with the sea of dancers, with Ted, and who knew but maybe she was even one with God, if God was a sense of well-being and joy.